


Die Hard, Lestrade Style

by Canisa



Series: Die Hard Infusion [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Anthea, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Lestrade, BAMF Mycroft, Caring Lestrade, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mycroft IS the British Government, Pre-Relationship, Protective Mycroft, Slow Burn, background Sherlock/John relationship, die hard - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canisa/pseuds/Canisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade headed to LA to fix his marriage.  What he didn't expect was to be stuck in a heist situation.  To make things worse, Mycroft Holmes was caught up in this impossible situation as well...</p>
<p>Inspired by the movie Die Hard, where Greg Lestrade = John McClane, with extra plot twists thrown into the mix.<br/>Cheers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Flight

Chapter 1: The flight

“You don’t like flying, do you?”

Greg Lestrade turned to his fellow passenger, an uneasy smile forced onto his handsome features. “No, no, where’d you get that idea?” The 48-year-old Detective Inspector was knackered, barely getting any sleep from the 12-hour flight between London and Los Angeles.

“You wanna know the secret of successful air travel?” The American businessman smiled back at Lestrade with white teeth, “After you get where you’re going, you take off your shoes and socks. Then you walk around the rug barefoot and make fists with your toes.”

“Fist with my toes?” He noted an edge of excitement in the businessman’s tone.

“Maybe it’s not a fist when its your toes.. I mean like this…” The businessman flexed his fingers to demonstrate. “.. but with your toes.”

Lestrade drew his eyes to his fellow passenger’s fingers, absentmindedly noting the visible tan line on the man’s finger where a wedding ring was supposed to be. A recent divorcee? As soon as the thought started to form in his head, Lestrade immediately squashed it. He resisted the urge to rub his face with his hand. _Bloody hell_. Years of working with Sherlock Holmes were starting to rub onto him apparently.

“….work out that time zone tension you know? Better than a cup of coffee and a hot shower for the old jet lag. Trust me, I have been doing this for nine years.”

Lestrade hummed. He peered out of the small window and was relieved to note that the plane has finally come to a stop, he loosened his iron grip on the seat arm.

“And you know…” The businessman suddenly freed his seat buckle and leaned into Lestrade’s personal space, spreading his smile wider. “Even better yet, a nice massage would surely relax you…”

With a fluid motion, Lestrade unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up. His firm body stretched while he reached for the overhead luggage compartment, the handgun under his jacket peeking out as he knew it would.

The businessman reared back as if he caught fire.

“Don’t worry, “ Lestrade grinned but his stern eyes told a different story. “Just doubling as the Air Marshal for today to earn my seat, that’s all.” He extracted his duffle bag with one swift pull. “I am a cop. I have been doing this for 19 years.”

The businessman stared at him with wide eyes.

Lestrade gave his last acknowledgement and turned. But before he could even take more than a few steps, he found himself colliding into a softness that suspiciously felt like.. “Oh.. I..” Lestrade fumbled, a hint of warmth creeped at the tip of his ears.

The polite apology was not even properly formed, when the young blonde-haired woman who bumped into him suddenly slipped him a piece of folded paper into his front pocket. Lestrade watched dumbfoundedly as she tossed him a smile with unspoken promises and left him as quickly as she had appeared.

Not even bothering to confirm what the paper said, Lestrade just shook his head, allowing himself to chuckle dryly. He should not have removed his wedding ring out of spite. Even in this disheveled state, apparently everyone, including men, all somehow fancied him. Lestrade ran his fingers through his silver hair.

_No, they fancied his appearance._

He mentally corrected. Lestrade knew he aged well. Too well. Rather than crumpling, his handsome boyish face only matured into a more distinguished look. Years of his job at Scotland Yard had also kept him fit and trim. He was easy on the eyes, but none of these strangers had seen the commitment and devotion he had for the duties of his job. The passion to serve the greater good was his core and his essence. None of these people but his wife of 19 years had known of the extent he pledged himself to protecting people... And imagine that, his wife was quickly going to turn into an ex-wife… But could he blame her? Spending countless dinners by herself. Abandoning carefully created weekend plans at a text message from his team. Housing junkies and the homeless that he had brought home for the night because he couldn’t just leave them be. Washing his bloody shirt not knowing whose blood it was from….

And at that train of thought, Lestrade sobered. Closing his eyes, he granted himself a second to drown in hurt and betrayal. Sherlock’s stinging but true words ringing in his ears. _She had cheated… repeatedly… the PE teacher…_ Lestrade inhaled sharply before he resolutely squared his shoulder. His brown eyes opened and refocused as he walked surely, even if every step was meant to meet his final chapter with Holly.

  * * - * -* -*




Mycroft Holmes despised errands. But being the British government, he had very little choice. If the errands meant to further his greater goals, to garner those favors, then they are necessary evils for him to undertake. He closed his eyes, his fingers steepled under his angular chin. He repressed a curl from forming at his mouth. And this particular last minute errand had been one he was waiting for quite a while. Mycroft had already known exactly how he was going to utilize this favor.

“Mr. Holmes? We will be landing 15 minutes.”

Mycroft opened his eyes in acknowledgment. “Anthea?”

The security detail nodded. “She has already swiped the hotel to prep for your arrival. Sir. The ambassador of Japan is en route and expected to be on time. Would you…”

“No need. Take me to the Nakatomi building first.”

The security detail hesitated. “This was not on the schedule…”

Mycroft eyed his new security detail coldly. If it weren’t for the minister of defense’s last minute meeting, he would have arrived with Anthea hours ago. “Change my agenda and tell Anthea we will be 45 minutes behind for an errand.”

The security detail swallowed and nodded before quickly scampered way.

Mycroft closed his eyes again. This time, he physically relaxed and sank into the posh seat of the private jet that came with his job. Mentally, he added another item for the new recruit onboard training in his mind palace.

Enveloped in the last rays of afternoon sunshine, the private jet finally slowed and prepared to descend into Los Angeles International Airport.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to correct some mistakes...


	2. The Negotiation

Chapter 2: The Negotiation

When the elevator opened on the 30th floor of the newly built Nakatomi building, Greg Lestrade was immediately confronted by a loud blast of live music. Had Lestrade been 20 years younger, he might have been embarrassed by how dressed-down he was. The beautiful people in front of him wore flowing cocktail dresses and sharp suits that cost months of his salary. But Lestrade had enough experience crashing parties as a police officer that he paid no attention to the well-dressed party crowd. He confidently waded into the celebration, skirting near the edge of the party, trained eyes scanning through the crowd.

“Champagne, sir?”

Lestrade took the offered drink from the waiter. After barely tasted the champagne, however, Lestrade immediately inverted the glass and poured it down a pot of plant next to him. The sweetness appalled him. A beer would have been more agreeable for him at this moment.

Lestrade sighed. What the bloody hell was he doing here? How stupid was he to agree when she had begged him to come to LA so that they could have a friendly closure? What a joke. He should have listened to John. The “three continent Watson” would have known how to have a clean and friendly break. But no, he didn’t listen to his mate. Nope. Not one bit. He had clung onto the history of 19 years of marriage and that small wishful thinking that perhaps this could be the beginning of a healing and not destruction. And guess what. Now he was in the territory of his cheating wife. Out of his element, thrown into a party that he hadn’t been apprised of.

Anger flared, he cut through the crowd with heavy steps. Just as he was going to grab an unsuspecting victim nearby to ask for Holly’s office, his eye caught her name plate on one of the office in the corner.

Bloody hell. She had gone back to _Holly Gennaro_. And they were not even divorced yet.

A fresh pit of fire erupted in his chest, Lestrade elbowed through the crowd even more roughly this time.

As soon as he reached the office, he threw open the office door with enough force that would have shaken the entire floor if not for the merry party that was happening around him.

  * * -* -* --*




Mycroft Holmes blinked and stared as the familiar Detective Inspector cut through the crowd like a shark going after a prey. It was surreal. Gregory should have been in London, chasing after criminals with his brother. In fact, Mycroft had just seen him on the CCTV footage yesterday. Ah… of course. Mycroft mentally chided himself. Creased trouser. Overly tensed trapezius muscle. Being a seasoned air traveler himself, he should have immediately recognized the obvious signs indicating that the DI had just stepped off a plane. Eleven hours and 13 minutes flight between London and LA. He would have left Heathrow around noon and arrived… about 2 hours ago. How the DI’s lips pressing into a thin line as if he had just eating a lemon indicates that he was angry. No. Make that tumultuously infuriated. DCI? Donovan? No. Something personal. Not Sherlock. Not his landlord. His wife then. Why L.A? She was a teacher. In chronological order, cheated with the gardener, the young neighbor 2 doors down, the new PE teacher, mortgage broker, VP of International Sales of Nakatomi Enterprise…

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft blinked and the gears in his mind palace came to a screeching halt. He blinked again and flawlessly schooled himself back to the proper role he had been enacting. “Yes, Mr. Takagi, I apologize for the momentarily lapse. I thought I had recognized the... music... and was trying to recall.”

The Japanese businessman was visibly amused but politely followed the conversation. “I did not know you are versed in classical music. Mr. Holmes.”

“I dabbled in piano. Mr. Takagi. They say music soothes one’s soul.” Mycroft returned an apologetic smile. “Even though I occupy but a minor position in the British government, there are times when I must make difficult decisions.” Mycroft raised the corner of his mouth but with no smile in his eyes. “Difficult decisions that may impact many lives. As I am sure you could appreciate. And music is a way for me to soothe my soul.”

Mr. Takagi smoothly took a sip of his mimosa champagne without a hint of surprise. “The world would have been as innocent as the cherry blossom if it were true. People like us are often put into that uncomfortable yet necessary situation. My obligation lies with my employer, Mr. Holmes. I do not offer allegiance to the British government as you do. There really was nothing that I could do. I apologize.” The Japanese businessman dipped his head customarily. Whether the gesture was sincerely offered did not escape Mycroft’s observation.

Mycroft smiled predatorily. Perhaps he, and not Lestrade, was the shark in this sea of people. “Surely you realize that there _are_ always options. Mr. Takagi.” Mycroft gestured to his security detail. “March 24, 2011.” Mycroft smoothly enunciated the date as he took over the offered briefcase from the young security detail. “I am sure your son would not be pleased to know the existence of this briefcase.

“You…” Mr. Takagi shook with anger. “Leave. My. Family. Alone.” If he had gripped the champagne flutes any tighter, the flutes would have shattered.

“There are always options.” Mycroft reminded the businessman. “And like you said. My obligation lies with the British government. Not your esteemed organization.”

“What would you have me do?” Mr. Takagi snarled, all traces of politeness gone while baring his teeth. “I cannot retract my vote.”

“Oh, you will be able to.” Mycroft countered easily, smiling with all teeth. “Shall we say, an unfortunate event would arise in 2 days that will call for the forfeit of the previous voting result. A new one will be conducted and I sincerely _implore_ you, for the benefit of _your family_ , to make the right decision this time around.”

“And how would you know if I place the _right_ vote.”

Mycroft let the defiance bounce off him like autumn leaves in the wind. “I will know.”

Mr. Takagi locked his cold gaze with hatred briefly before he turned his back and walked briskly away from the nightmare he had just experienced. The people around them went on merrily with apathy and ignorance.

Mycroft placed the half full champagne on the tall table. He then handed the briefcase back to the young security detail.

“Sir. Shall I call Andrew to prepare for our leave?”

Mycroft pressed his lips into thin line. He tapped lightly on his thigh. Twice. He made a decision. “Tell Andrew to get ready in 12 minutes. I have a small business to attend to.”

The security detail nodded. “I will let Anthea know.”

“Do that.” As Mycroft started to stride toward the direction of Holly Gennaro’s office, the elevator suddenly chimed behind him to announce the arrival of a new set of guests.

The elevator door opened.

-* - * -*

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Lestrade gripped the doorframe, watching his wife of 19 years being pressed against the window glass by a tall man in a navy blue pinstripe suit.

“Greg!”

Lestrade crossed the room in 3 steps and pulled the man off his wife. “Get out. Get the fuck out of here.”

When Lestrade was faced with the man, ready to smash in his nose, Lestrade was immediately disgusted by a hint of smeared white powder on the man’s goatee.

“Wait, Greg! You misunderstood.”

Lestrade watched in disbelief when his wife came to defend the junkie in front of him.

“He is Ellis! He is .. he is…” The woman fumbled, frantically looking for a neutral ground. “He is my boss. He is in charge of International Acquisitions…”

“That explains the recent deal with Bolivia.” Lestrade dropped his fist. “Was it cocoa or cocaine that you have helped to broker the deal?” The DI recognized the man all right without his wife’s lame introduction. Ellis. The fucking VP that prompted Holly to ask for a divorce, quit her teaching job and moved to US to work for him as his… his fucking secretary.

The temperature in the room dropped another 10 degree when Ellis reacted to Lestrade’s Bolivia comment and nervously wiped his goatee with the back of his expensive sleeve.

“Relax. “Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “This is not my jurisdiction.” What he would have done if it were his jurisdiction was left unsaid but clear and loud.

“Holly’s policeman!” Ellis recovered quickly and flashed his confidence like a peacock.

“Her husband.” The correction squeezed through Lestrade’s clenching teeth, but was promptly ignored by the VP of International Sales of Nakatomi Enterprise.

“Look, pal. This is a celebration party. We closed a pretty big deal today and a lot of it was due to Holly. You have no idea how brilliant she is, do you?”

Lestrade tightened his fists, but keeping them firmly by his side.

“I thought you were arriving tomorrow.” Holly offered weakly.   What she really meant was that she didn’t want Lestrade to witness this. She had sincerely hoped for a friendly closure. Tomorrow.

That 19 years of marriage really was no fucking joke. Lestrade closed his eyes, couldn’t believe that he was still able to read his wife so plainly. To add salt to his gaping wound, he couldn’t believe that he was so readily to accept her unspoken apology.

“Go on, Holly. Show Greg your watch.”

“Ellis, I am not sure if this is the right time….”

“What, are you ashamed of your accomplishment? That Rolex is just a little token of our appreciation for all your hard work. You would have to rot in that London hell hole and still be an unappreciated teacher, unappreciated wife. Slave to this goddamn….”

“Stop it, Ellis! Stop it!”

Lestrade could hear his wife sobbing and felt so helpless to do anything about it. He refused to open his eyes, refused to participate in this ridiculous charade.

“Greg…”

Lestrade felt a gentle touch to his shoulder. Warm and cold. He willed himself not to lean into the familiar touch.

“Greg.. look, I am just, I am just going to give you some space okay?” The soft voice with a trace of hitched cadence was too painful for Greg to bear. “Let’s talk tomorrow when things are much calmer than.. than this, all right? Ellis and I will go, and you can have this office.. and just… you know, take some time to calm down, all right? We will talk tomorrow and we… and I will text you the address to meet. Would that be all right? First thing in the morning. I promise. Greg.. Say something.. please say something, Greg…”

Lestrade didn’t have to open his eyes to know that his knuckle is turning an unhealthy shade of white.

“Greg.. please… just say something…”

The uncomfortable silence blanketed the room, settled, and made its presence known loudly before Lestrade finally gave in. “Fine.” Lestrade let the word out. “Go.”

When the door finally clicked softly behind the pair, Lestrade dropped on the floor like a tossed marionette. For a moment, he felt numb as he gazed at the night-time cityscape outside of the window, displaying beautifully like there was no pain and ugliness in the world.

In a sudden fits of anger, Lestrade took off his shoes and hurled them toward the window.

The shoes hit the window glass. Hard. But instead of shattering the window to mar that beautiful city nightscape, the shoes dropped on the floor with a heavy thud.

Greg buried his face in his hands. The heartbroken man remained on the cold travertine floor for a good few minutes before he finally stood up. When he slowly made his way to retrieve his shoes, he then heard the unmistakable sounds erupted in the lobby.

_Machine guns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to fix some mistakes...


	3. The Chaos

Chapter 3: The Chaos

Mycroft would never mistake the sound of Kalashnikov machine gun knocking against the metal of the elevator door. He had seen too much, been through too much, and had the scars to prove it. Without even looking back at the elevator to confirm, he dived forward.

The sickening sound of gunshots started. Screams erupted like an avalanche, blanketing the room with sheer terror.

Still staying low on the ground, Mycroft moved swiftly toward the left side of grand piano for cover. Years of habit had served him well. When he had first entered the lobby, Mycroft immediately scanned, calculated, and determined that the grand piano was the optimal tactical location for cover if anything should happen. The grand piano was located slightly off center to the lobby, backed by a ceiling high waterfall fountain. The piano’s top board fortuitously raised in an angle and neatly covered line of sight from an assailant if one were to make a dash toward the green emergency exit sign.

Having established his tactical position, Mycroft then started to scan the panic crowd for Gregory. Mycroft quickly located Holly Gennaro as she frantically latched onto a tall man that was distinctively not Gregory Lestrade. Her lover then. Her boss. Arrogant prick. Gregory must still be trapped in the office. Despite their rocky marriage, Gregory would have been by his wife’s side, protective and strong.

Good. Good. Office was good. He would have enough time to come up with something.

Mycroft then switched his focus to his young security detail. When he located the young man, lying supine with a hole in his forehead, Mycroft altered his assessment of the situation. Those had not been warning shots after all.

It would be too much risk to retrieve his gun when his dead security detail was on the other side of the room.

Another round of machine gun fired and the screaming and crying all mixed into cacophony.

The intruders, flanking the panic crowd from all sides, were now efficiently rounding them up like cattles to the center of lobby. Mycroft stayed put. His location would be considered as part of the circle. His tactical position was not breached yet.

But his good luck did not continue. Mycroft’s heart sank as he watched the obviously trained professionals wasted no time to immediately split into 2 groups. One group continued to round the hostages into the center, while the other group started to methodically sweep through offices, yanking people hidden in the rooms.

They were just 4 doors before Gennaro’s office.

Mycroft’s brilliant mind came to a stutter. Multiple threads of thoughts tangled into a mess.

Workplace grudge…., no, no. Too professional. Robbery? Terrorism? Military uniforms. Weapons. ATTITUDE. Specific target? Him? Takagi? Fuck. 3 doors to Gennaro’s office…. back, back, back.. Target. Takagi? Nicolson? Swatnamm? Middle east? No. European then. That’s Hans Gruber standing at the… Political? Money? The vault has 640 Million of.. Hans was expounded from.. Sod that. Need to distract the gunmen so Gregory could have time. Gennaro’s office was close to the emergency stairwell exit. A commotion would be sufficient for Gregory to make it. What could attract attention? 2 doors now. Too much screaming. Too many rounds of gunshots. Too many people running… Lights.. lights… blind them, startle them. Darkness.. switch.. too far. Fucking hell. What could…

A half-naked woman was suddenly pulled from the office 2 doors before Gennaro’s office by a smirking gunman.

Mycroft didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he saw a familiar figure, stealthily dashing through the narrow hallway under the cover of cat-calling, whistles, screaming, and gunshots. A smile curled on Mycroft’s face as he watched the silver haired policeman yanked open the fire-proof door and slipped into the safety of the dark stairwell.

*-*-*-*

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

Lestrade panted. In his haste, he barely had the sense to grab his gun and used the naked woman as a distraction to make it into the stairwell. He was keenly aware of the coldness of the concrete floor against his bare feet. And with no cell phone.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

But he could not stop. He would have to get Holly later. He had to find a safe place first to observe and assess. No way was he going to abandon her.

Jesus. That fucking Ellis better shut his mouth and lay low.

Lestrade sped up and run up the stairs. He cracked open the first door and was confronted with a half-finished partitions and office furniture in its original plastic wrappings.

Right. If he remembered correctly, Nakatomi Building was just recently built and not all floors were completed yet.

“32 construction, 33 computers...” He muttered as he took a peek into each floor and then quickly quietly closed the door.

As Lestrade started to open the door to the machine room on 36th floor, a loud noise gripped his attention.. He closed the door and moved up one flight.

The one good thing about being barefoot was that he was as silent as a cat in the still of night. Very quietly, he cracked the door and looked into the floor which evidently had access to the roof.

_Fuck._ Lestrade counted 3 terrorists, all dressed in proper gear, speaking German. The wooden crates looked military grade.

_Bloody hell._ He came to LA to deal with his marriage and now he has to fucking deal with professional terrorists.

Great. This was just great.

He had never imagine a day that could be more dangerous working with the daredevil named Sherlock.

Apparently today was the day.

Lestrade gingerly closed the door and slipped back to the 32nd floor of construction.

-* - * -*

With Lestrade out of the way, Mycroft was able to refocus on the situation. The target of this operation would have to be either himself or Takagi. Hans Gruber had a fallout with his organization three months ago. If he desired to fund his own operation, 640 million dollars would be well worth the effort. If he wanted secrets, well, no one better than the personification of the British government would do the job.

“Ladies and gentleman, due to the Nakatomi Corporation’s legacy of greed around the globe...” Hans began, stepping into the spotlight, “it is about to be taught a lesson on real power.”

His security detail dead with bullet in his head. execution. Not a random shot…

“You..” Hans paused, a smile spread across his handsome face, as he scan through the hostages before him. “...will be witnesses.”

Mycroft was lured into taking on this last minute “errand” and without his usual people...

”Now.. where is Takagi?”

Mycroft did not missed Hans’ cold eyes lingered on him for just that fraction of second more before they settled on Mr. Takagi. “There you are. Come, come. Mr. Takagi. We would love to have a nice little chat.”

Ah. Of course. Why not both the secret and the funding.

Still crouching on the ground like all other hostages, Mycroft slowly reached into his left sock. His fingers wrapped around a small pill against his left ankle.

Under no circumstances would he be put in a position of divulging secrets. He could withstand a lot of pain. But given enough time, even he could be broken. Mycroft personally knew 27 methods to accomplish that goal.

These people were professionals and they would have already been jamming any cellular signals. Anthea would just be start looking for him in the NEXT hour.

Eyes tracking every movement of the gunmen, Mycroft slowly and discreetly brought the pill to his mouth. The pill was cool against his lips. He hesitated. Closing his eyes, Mycroft paraded sentiments, regrets, and could haves through his mind palace.

_John would take care of Sherlock…_

_Gregory would have no idea of his..._

“Mr. Holmes. Would you like to join us for a little chat as well?”

Mycroft swallowed the pill and opened his eyes. He coughed and let his empty hands dropped to his side as naturally as possible. “Well. Mr. Gruber. I thought you never asked.” Mycroft pushed himself up slowly. He would prefer to look Hans in the eyes at the same level. “The pleasure is all mine.”

The gel capsule would take 1 hour to dissolve. After that, well… it would be a one-way ticket for a vacation that Mycroft deserved.

Mycroft mentally started the clock as he and Mr. Takagi were led to the elevator.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

Think. THINK!

Lestrade stared out of the expensive window from the 32nd floor. Not too far from the Nakatomi Building, he could see another high rise. An apartment was lit and a beautiful woman leisurely walking around her living room with yoga gear. Even at the distance, Lestrade could tell she had nice curves. But the DI did not linger on that thought. Rather, he cursed that he was not a marksman like John.

John would have been able to shot through the window to alert the beautiful neighbor about this take-over situation.

Lestrade knocked his head against the window. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that the elevator was now moving. It stopped at 35th floor conference room.

Great. Just great. What are they up to now?

Lestrade went down a floor and quietly opened the door to the conference room where the elevator had stopped.

“This is too nice a suit to ruin, Mr. Takagi. I’m going to count to three. There will not be a four. Give me the code to the vault.”

Robbery. Lestrade mentally registered and started to crawl toward the voices. It was behind the door of a conference room framed by artistically frosted glasses. He withdrew his handgun and crouched under an office desk. From where he was, he couldn’t make out the people’s faces, but judging from the shapes, he could see there were 6 people in the room, all seated around the conference table.

“I don’t know it! Get on a goddamn jet to Tokyo and ask the chairman! I’m telling you! You’re just going to have to kill me ---”

The unexpected gunshot startled Lestrade. He reacted and bumped into the underside of the desk loudly.

_Fuck._

For a brief moment, Lestrade had hoped that the people in the conference didn’t hear it. But the hope faltered when he saw movement in the conference room.

Lestrade quickly retreated into an office and locked the door. He sucked in a breath and listened.

Door were opened and shut loudly nearby. Footsteps came closer. The doorknob to his office rattled.

Lestrade held up his handgun and aimed at the door.

The doorknob rattled again. Harder. Rougher.

Lestrade held a breath.

“Karl, there is nothing. Go and prep the roof. Tony, you stay here.”

Lestrade relaxed. He rested his head against the wall.

 “Theo. Can you break the code?”

“You didn’t bring me along for my charming personality, did you?”

“Well. I do bring insurance. We are on a schedule after all. I am sure Mr. Holmes here is more than able to break the code as well.”

In shock, Lestrade turned his head toward the door.

_Holmes?_

“I regret to say that breaking a computer code would not be a talent of mine. My dear brother on the other hand, would have a better chance.”

_Mycroft???_

“Mr. Holmes. You are too humble. I am sure a man of your resources and talents would be more than useful.”

Lestrade slowly moved toward the door. He quietly unlocked and cracked open the door.

“I am afraid you will have to do better than flattery.”

_Fuck. It is Mycroft Holmes. Why the bloody hell was he here? Never mind that… Think. Goddamn it. THINK! Can’t have another person killed…_

“Well… Karl is gone but he did leave me a set of nice tools for me to convince you otherwise. Would you like to see it?”

Lestrade paced in the room wildly until his eye suddenly rested on the smoke detector in the ceiling. In a quick movement, he grabbed and dumped any paper he could get in his hands into the trash can. He frantically reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter.

_Thank god for smoking._

He wasted no time to light up the paper. Picking up the now burning trash can, Lestrade scrambled onto the desk. He held it to the smoke detector as close as possible. He watched the black smoke slowly rising.

_Come on. Come on!_

“Those are really not up to par to my taste. Mr. Gruber.”

_Really, Holmes? Can you just shut your mouth for once? Come on sprinkler! Come on!_

“Hans. This is ridiculous. You know they want him alive. I can break the code. Just give me thirty….. Fuck! What the hell! My computer!”

Lestrade watched in fascination as the water spread out of the sprinkler. He had never seen anything so beautiful...

“Theo, take your precious computer down to the lobby. NOW! Tony, you watch Holmes here. Do not let anyone get close to him.”

Lestrade heard the footsteps following the order. Radio static ensued shortly.

 “Eddie? Call 911 and give them the name and badge number on your uniform and cancel…” The voice clipped at the same time as the elevator chimed.

Lestrade took a deep breath, counted his luck, and burst through the door.

Good. There was only one man left to guard Mycroft.

The silver-haired policeman pulled the trigger and shot in the direction of man that was not Holmes.

Tony screamed as he pressed his hand on his now injured arm. “Fucking hell! Where the…”

_Fuck!_ For the 2nd time, Lestrade cursed that he was no John Watson.

“Gregory?”

“Take cover! Take cover!” Lestrade barked as he rolled to the side. Wedging between the desks, he fired again quickly, this time it hit the leg.

A machine gun fired aimlessly, as Tony screamed in agony.

“Mycroft!! Take cover! Take cover!” Lestrade felt his heart sank as he watched Mycroft drop down.

_Fuck. Fuck!! I need to take him down. I need to take that fucker down now!_

Lestrade immediately crawled toward the madman who was now firing into anything around him. He stood up.

_Don’t hit me… don’t hit me.. don’t hit me yet…_

The luck was on Lestrade’s side as the man was facing the other way. “You got one shot.. one shot..” Lestrade chanted as he stilled his arm. “one shot.. one shot.” He took aim.

He pulled the trigger and watched the man named Tony went down.

The sprinkler stopped at the same time as Lestrade moved cautiously toward the downed gunman. A spread of crimson red blossomed under the stilled hostile.

Lestrade breathed. Hard.

Tony was the first man Lestrade had killed in 14 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first had the idea of merging Die Hard... I wanted it to work for Sherlock and John.. I mean, it should have been easy to mix John Watson with John McClane.. But somehow it just didn't work. I couldn't get it past 3 paragraphs. Lestrade is a better fit in terms of background. Cop. Rocky marriage and all.... the tricky part is how to mix in Mycroft... hum.. I am hoping so far it is going all right and not too forced.
> 
> Edited to fix mistakes...


	4. The Affection

Chapter 4: The affection

::::: _“That sodding bastard. Did he do this to you? Oh, don’t me give that. Christ. Acting like 5 year olds. What the hell is wrong with you lot. Here, take my umbrella. I don’t have a cane but this would do for now. Let’s get out of here...”_

_“He was high. He didn’t know.”_

_“There is a limit to… Sod that. You don’t need to hear from me. Hell. You don’t need to hear from anyone. Why are you walking so slow? …. oh… Christ. Let me see that….. There is no way you are going to be able to walk like that… Here. Sit and don’t move.”_

_“Detective Inspector, as much as I appreciate your unfounded concerns, this but a mild incon….”_

_“Christ. Mycroft. Do you always talk this much? Not everyone goes to posh school like you and Sherlock. Read my lips. Do. Not. Move. I just need to get this on you… ah... There. Now. You know where would Sherlock go?”_

_“I know of 7 locations he could…”_

_“Sit. I said, sit! Jesus Christ. Neither of you listen! Look… Look, just let me get my key. I will find him. You stay here, and just.. just look posh okay. That’s what you are supposed to be. Looking all high and almighty without needing to lift a finger. ”_

_“Detective Inspector, if I could...”_

_“Christ. I have a name. Use it. We have known each other like, what, for 2 years now? Okay, give me the locations now. This is what we commoner cops do. Go and look for junkies. Drag their sorry asses back to civilizations. You just be your posh self and just think of the bigger picture okay?”_

_“Detective Inspector, I …”_

_“Trust me. Mycroft. I will find him. You are in no condition to be running around in the city like that. Don’t worry. I will sack him first, when I find him.”_

_“Detective…”_

_“Trust me.” ::::_

_-* - * - * - * - * - *_

The first thing Mycroft saw when he came to awareness, was the expressive brown eyes pinning him from above. There were the same eyes in his dream.

“Mycroft?”

The iceman blinked, taking in the full sight of Gregory Lestrade.

_Blood on his cheek, front shirt, trouser. Splatter pattern consistent with close range gunshot. No lacerations. Not his blood._

_Thank goodness. Not his blood._

Trying to sit up, Mycroft put weights on his elbow and winced when the sharp pain shot up. Mycroft looked to his left arm.

Inconsequential. A graze.

“Thank goodness.. you were out and I wasn’t sure if you.. you know… You look really pale.”

“Detective Inspector, how long was I out?”

“Since the shooting started? um… about 5 minutes maybe?”

Mycroft saw the proud grin spread across the silver-haired policeman.

“I took that bastard down pretty good. Not bad for an old guy like me. Though if I were John, probably could have gotten us out of here without your arm looking like that. We should leave soon. They are going to figure out that the fire alarm was triggered on this floor pretty quickly. I got ourselves a radio, a machine gun, and some explosives. We are going to give those bastards a great firework show soon.”

Mycroft did a mental calculation. He had 18 minutes before he goes… downhill…

“Detective Inspector, I sincerely implore you that it is best if you leave me here.”

“What?”

Mycroft felt warmth when Gregory immediately patted him down, looking for other wounds.

“Oh, you posh bastard, you are okay, just a nick on your arm, nothing serious. We just have to run up a few flights. I found a pretty good spot for us to hide. That fire alarm would have alerted the local police by now.”

“No. I would insist again that you depart from here without my company. In 16 minutes, I would… it would not...look pleasant.”

Mycroft saw the confusion marred that handsome face. But just seeing that made his peace. He had the choice to bite into the pill, breaking the gel capsule right there and receiving the immediate effect. But instead, he only swallowed, buying the precious hour.

Perhaps subconsciously, he had hoped to see Gregory one last time before he departed. And whatever high power had granted him that wish. In fact, this was the best case scenario. His own predicament could help Gregory out of this situation. “Leave the gun here. It will look like I killed him. They would not know your presence, so you could stay hidden.”

“What the hell? I am not going to bloody leave you here. Wait…” The expressive brown eyes narrowed. “What the bloody hell did you do?”

Mycroft could see the gears in his mind turning. So instead of saying anything, he averted his eyes.

“What the hell! Do you have some sort of.. like.. suicidal pill? I have watched enough spies movies to… What.. How… How could you do… WHY??? Okay… Okay… Where is the antidote? Don’t you carry those?”

“No.”

“Fucking hell. So you did swallow a suicidal pill! How can you be so stupid. Oh god, you would think you have enough sense after all we been through with your suicidal brother. Can’t you think about what this would do to your family?!”

“Sherlock has John.”

“And you have no one else? Fantastic. Just fantastic. You are an idiot, Mycroft. Anthea is going to strangle you to death, and I am just going to sit back and enjoy the show… Actually, you know what, sod that, I am going to join her. How could you do this to me? How!!! Use your fucking big brain and think of how to get out of this! You know everything!”

Mycroft watched in faint fascination as Gregory waved his arms wildly, screaming in frustration.. in consideration for… for him.

“I made my peace. Gregory.” Mycroft’s mask of indifference crumpled as he slipped the D.I.’s name.

“You have never called my name before. Christ, you are giving up aren’t you?”

Lestrade crowded into Mycroft’s space, his face inches from the dying man. “Don’t you have regrets? You can’t just do this! Think!! What can we get that thing out of...”

Mycroft fisted Lestrade’s bloodied shirt. Pulled him close, and crashed his lips onto him. He felt the man tensed briefly before he went lax. Sensing no real resistance, Mycroft gave in to his last indulgence and pushed his tongue through. He tentatively explored the warmth for a brief moment before he nibbled on the man’s lower lip and reluctantly pulled away as quickly as he could.

This would be what he deserved. The bribing, the stalking, the spying, the threats, the murdering… all those that he had done to honorable and not so honorable people in the name of the greater good of the British government…

He could not take it all.. but at least he could part with this.

“Oh, that’s a fantastic idea.”

Mycroft arched his eyebrow, noting the shock he had observed in Gregory was slowly transforming into…. predatory smirk?

Interesting. Of all the reactions he had fanta--.. no.. no. Predicted. That had not been in any of them.

Before Mycroft could ponder deeper, Gregory moved.

In one swift motion, Mycroft felt his head was unceremoniously locked by Gregory’s strong arm, and two fingers were suddenly thrusted into his mouth without grace. Mycroft barely had the mind to decode what was happening when the said two fingers hit the back of his throat with full force, triggering his pharyngeal reflex. His will trumped by biology, Mycroft felt his throat tightened, abdomen clinched, and then he lurched forward.

He vomited violently all over the floor once. And then the second time. And then the third time. The smell was so obnoxious that it made Mycroft’s head spin.

“There.”

Even in his hazed state, the once almighty personification of the British Government could hear the grin...

“Take that, you posh, suicidal, selfish, bastard. That should get that fucking pill out of your system.”

… and ….and the fondness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all that left comments and kudos. Here is a chapter dedicating to you. I had wanted to include more in this chapter.. but I am traveling tomorrow... so I better just get this out. 
> 
> I am a bit nervous about how this one turned out. None of the elements here were from the movie DIE HARD. Also, I am not exactly good at writing those romantic scenes... and, *cough*, I hope you had eaten your meal way before you read this chapter. Cheers.
> 
> Edited to fix some mistakes...


	5. The Communication

Chapter 5: The Communication

“What do you mean they called off the police?”  Anthea barked into her Bluetooth earpiece.  She maneuvered her car, screeching her tires as she rounded the corner.

The sound of scrambling on the other side of the phone line was quickly replaced by a cool male’s voice.

“... Apparently the security guard at the Nakatomi was able to provide credentials and called off the false alarm.  The report said it was just a party going a bit overboard.”

“Those idiots took his word over the phone?”  Anthea asked the rhetorical question in disbelief.  _Do they not follow protocols any more?_ “Did Devin or Andrew call in yet?”

“Still nothing.”

Anthea sped through downtown, cutting off cars left and right.  “What assets do we have within a 50 km radius?”

“Just us.”

Anthea slammed her hand on the steering wheel.  Hard.  She had a bad feeling about this from the start when Mycroft had told her to get to LA first without him.  That last-minute detour when Devin called in….  She should have known.  Should have known and put a stop to it.  And now Mycroft had gone dark, along with two men.  It was looking more and more like a terrorist hijacking.  The fire alarm was likely triggered by survivors.  And those clowns…  Those incompetent….  Oh God, she hope it was Mycroft who pulled the alarm.  Knowing his sense of duty, he would have...

Anthea took a deep breath.  “Chart the Concorde [1].  Round all available MI6.  Make sure the pilot knows I want them here under three hours.  Get Dr. Watson if he can be tracked down.  Don’t waste time.  Three hours.”  Anthea furiously shifted into high gear.  The car roared.  Her mind spun, calculating and assessing.  “Powell.”

“Yes, I am still here.”

She needed enforcement right now, and clowns would be better than nothing. They could provide the distraction she needed for her to go in herself.  “Wake the mayor and call the Fed. I don’t care what rank you pull, you get the police and FBI on the scene right now.  And I want a drop on their comm.  I want to know everything they know.”

“Already on it.”

She pressed the gas pedal and sped toward Nagatomi Building.

NOTE: [1] Concorde is a turbojet-powered supersonic passenger jet that was operating until 2003.  It was used by British Airline.  In 2003, it could go at maximum of 1,354 mph.  Though at the time the range was only about 4,500 miles.  For the purpose of this story, let’s just say it could go 5,500 miles, which is roughly the distance between London and L.A.  So by that calculation it would only take 4 hours to get from London to LA.  Let's pretend that this supersonic jet is still in service (and further developed by the secret agency), given that this is now 2015. Technology improved.. and it could go faster and longer…  Hence, the 3 hour ETA demanded by Anthea. 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Lestrade stepped back and watched in full satisfaction as Mycroft bent over and puked all over the floor.

Damn right.  That’s what he deserved for making people worry.  If it weren't for the situation they were in, he would have happily snapped a picture and posted on John’s blog.  Sherlock would be proud.

Sensing that the vomiting was done, Lestrade tossed the sorry-looking guy a box of tissues. He crossed his arms, smirk still hanging on his face as he watched Mycroft unbuttoning his suit. 

When the poor man peeled himself out of the soiled jacket, Lestrade suddenly caught sight of his long pale neck, stretched, water droplet trailing down.

_There are freckles on his skin, even on the back of his neck..._

Lestrade stared.  Almost 8 years of working with Mycroft, he had never noticed that before.

_Wonder if they spill over to his shoulders…_

Lestrade turned away abruptly, the feeling of Mycroft on his lips not forgotten.

Lestrade was not an idiot.  In his youth, he was good looking, charming with a little touch of danger.  Girls liked that.  Blokes enjoyed hanging out with him.  He was so used to others attention on him that he had learned to tune them out into the background.  Hell, his first kiss was from his best friend when he was only 14 years old, who apparently had a crush on him for months and decided that action spoke louder than words.  After that, the advances were more subtle and more sophisticated. And Lestrade had never really shied away from those interests until the day he was married.

So his situation with Mycroft was certainly unexpected.  The kiss was… something.  It wasn’t mind blowing and certainly not the best one he ever had.  But the memory of that pressure on his lips would not go away.  Rather, it crawled in the back of his mind, unlocking and triggering something within him that was elusive yet familiar. 

And it was confusing.

Mycroft had always been so detached and aloof that Lestrade just assumed the protective big brother continued the association with him only because of Sherlock. 

How had he missed the signs? 

For the most part, Lestrade enjoyed the company of Mycroft.  Sure he was intimidating and hard to read, But the DI found that intriguing.  Particularly since he had seen, under all that iceman persona, a caring man that worried constantly about his brother.  Lestrade had always come home to Holly with tibits of Mycroft this, and Sherlock that.  In fact, Lestrade recalled that Holly, on numerous instances, had even joked that….

Lestrade stopped abruptly at the thought of his wife.

Christ, what was he thinking.  His wife was with 30 some hostages downstairs.  Rescue would have to take priority.  He would need to get Holly out of danger.. and then.. and then he could sort this thing out.

And where were the fucking police?  He had triggered the fire alarm ages ago.

Lestrade walked briskly over to the window and peered down, frowning as he saw a string of police cars heading AWAY from the building.  “Bloody hell…”

“It was not unexpected that the terrorists were able to call them off, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turned and noticed that the iceman had already schooled himself back to that aloofness he knew so well.  But at the same time, Lestrade also noted that Mycroft had gotten rid of his suit jacket, waistcoat, and the burgundy tie.  A button was left open on the top of his white shirt. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

Lestrade suddenly realized that this was the most dressed down he had ever witnessed, Mycroft showing more skin than the policeman had ever seen before.  It felt oddly intimate.

Against his will, Lestrade’s mind wondered briefly about the skin beneath that thin layer of silky fabric.  The memory of those freckles occupied his imagination.  The pressure of his lips on...

Lestrade inhaled.  Deep.

_This really was not good._

“What, back to my title again now? You took what you needed and decided to toss me like a piece of rag now that the moment was gone?”  Lestrade never thought he would see Mycroft wince.  it was endearing.

“Detective Inspector, it was not my intention to…”

“Oh, save it. I am not an idiot like you think I am, you know?” He smoothed his silver hair.  He hand stayed at the nab of his neck, stabilizing himself.  His eyes down casted, trying to hide the conflicts within.  “Look.  There are bad guys down there with a lot of scared people.  Let's do our job first and then… And then we could talk about this?  All right?”

Lestrade could sense the relief on Mycroft’s posture.

“I cannot agree more, Detective Inspector.”

“Are you agreeing to the ‘me as an idiot’ part or the ‘ killing the bad guy ‘part?”  Lestrade just couldn't hold his tongue.

But the reward was worth it.  Lestrade laughed as he watched Mycroft blanched.

How refreshing.  He could get used to this version of Mycroft.

-*-*-*-*

Is this Gregory’s idea of flirting?

Mycroft watched the handsome man laugh and was thrown into confusion. 

He had learned the skills of seduction (part of the job from his field days), and this was not in any of his playbook.  But he enjoyed watching him laugh, even if it was at the expense of his missteps.

Sighing visibly, Mycroft moved toward Gregory, avoiding the mess on the floor.

His first kiss in decades and he vomited all over the floor.  He marveled at how at ease Gregory was and relieved at the same time that Gregory was not looking at him with disgust. 

When Mycroft had forced the kiss on him, the sentimentalist in him (what’s little left of it) had wanted to take what he could before he died, while the strategist in him had planned on the policeman walking out on him, thus keeping Gregory safe.

How things turned out so differently.  How his Gregory always behaved in the utmost surprising ways.

Mycroft walked toward the window where Gregory was, fighting hard to keep the emotion from surfacing.  He looked down to the street.  Not surprisingly, the police cars and firetrucks were almost disappearing in the distance.

“Bloody hell.  All that work wasted.” 

Mycroft considered.  “Not entirely so, Detective Inspector.  Anthea most probably intercepted the message.”

Though, that was assuming she hadn't written him off yet, much like he was so eagerly to do so himself….

“It is imperative that we establish contact with Anthea.”  Mycroft added a bit too fast, now that his original plan was all but out of the window.  To keep Gregory out of the harm’s way, she was needed.

“Sorry Mycroft, I don’t have a cell phone.”

“It would not matter.  The cellular signals would have already been jammed.”

“What about this?  I nicked this from the dead guy.”

Mycroft smiles at the communicator.  “We could certainly put that to use.  Anthea would have already drop into the police emergency channel.”  Mycroft ran through his mind palace, looking for the relevant information.  “That would be channel 530.”

“Roof would probably have the best signal right?”

“Most astute reasoning.”

-*-*-*-*-

Holly shivered as her now soaked evening gown clinged to her uncomfortably.  The fire alarm had been triggered and a glimmer of hope erupted even when she was soaked in the rain of the sprinklers.

Her eyes nervously darted back and forth between the guards with the machine gun pointing at them. Holly was disappointed to see that none of the gunman exhibited panic.

The elevator chimed and Holly’s eyes involuntarily drawn to the direction.  The leader of the group.. Hans Gruber… had a look that could kill as he stepped out of the elevator.  A geeky looking young man trailing behind him, clinching to a drenched computer.

“Eddie, did you call off the police?  And find out where the fire alarm was triggered.”  Hans spoke into the communicator.

She held onto Ellis tightly.  Haven't seen Greg in the midst of the hostages, she prayed that Greg had made to safety and alerted the authorities.

“Fuck…  Fuck.  My computer!”

“Shut up, Theo.”  The words from the leader was stern and clipped. “Figure out if your computer still works.  If not, see if you can hack from the server room.  32nd floor.”

“Right on it, Hans.”

Holly watched the young man retreated back to the elevator quickly. 

The sprinklers was shut off at the same time.

“They don't look happy.  Something’s gone wrong..”

Holly nodded to Ellis’ whispering.  Didn't dare to speak yet.

“The police are here?”

Holly shook her head… “Could be Greg…” She hoped.

“Greg?!”  Ellis immediately covered his mouth, whispering softer this time.  “Jesus, he could fuck this whole thing up….”

“He is just doing his job.”

“His job is 6,000 miles away.  When was the last time he even shot a gun?!”

Holly didn't know.  They hadn't really talked for so long.  She didn't know what cases he were working on.  Who were his subordinates.  What bothered him, and what made his days.  The silence became so unbearable that she had sought warmth and comfort elsewhere for so long.  Holly didn't know exactly when their marriage had evolved into this…  this roommate arrangement.  And then Ellis became a constant in her universe, providing the direction and the reassurance, that she was needed, that there was something she was good at.  And then she moved oversea 6 months ago, losing herself in the excitement of work, and feeling like a woman again in Ellis’s arms.

Holly’s thoughts was cut short as she suddenly felt a shiver.  She instinctively knew it was not because of her wet clothes.  Raising her eyes, she was shocked to find Hans Gruber staring back at her. 

The gaze was cold and calculating.

She sucked in a breath when she saw Hans took a deliberate step toward her.  Hurriedly averting her eyes, she buried herself and tugged onto Ellis’ sleeve.  She felt him wrapped around her protectively.

Holly closed her eyes. Her body shook uncontrollably.  Just as Holly was losing hope, a familiar voice suddenly came through from the radio communicator. 

“Mayday! Mayday! Anyone! Terrorist have seized Nakatomi Building and are holding about 30 hostages!”

Holly opened her eyes wide.  Greg’s voice was echoing throughout the lobby through the communicator on open channel.

“I will say again… Terrorist have seized Nakatomi….” 

To Holly’s relief, Hans Gruber turned his attention away from her.  “He must be on the roof.  Marco, take 2 men with you.  Go!”  He barked out an order.

But the relief was only temporary. Holly’s heart sank as she watched three terrorists rush up the stairs.  Heavily armed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traveling... so updates will be slow. 
> 
> Thanks for kudos, comments, and subscriptions!. It is wonderful to know people are reading.


	6. The Ambush

Chapter 6: The Ambush

The evening air was breezy when Anthea stepped out of her car.  She looked up to the Nakatomi building.  Light filtered out of the windows, radiating in the night like any other tall buildings in the business district of LA downtown.  There were few pedestrians, all heading quickly out of their workplace on a Friday evening.  The cars raced by, trying to reach their destinations as fast as the traffic would allow. 

However, the eerie normality would not contain Anthea’s loud beating heart.  From where she stood, she could see a security guard sitting at the front desk behind the double glass front door.  His foot propped up on the desk.  She caught a careless glance from the man before he returned his attention back to the newspaper in his one hand.

The other hand was hidden behind the newspaper.

“Anthea.”

She turned around, her chestnut colored hair blown in the wind.  Seeing the large black leather handbag Powell was carrying, she nodded approvingly.  Her hand glided into his and the bag was exchanged smoothly into her other hand. 

Anthea flickered her eyes and smiled lovingly at her companion.  When Powell leaned in to kiss on her cheek, she whispered softly into his ears.  “Walk with me.  Target is watching.” 

“Of course, honey.  You will love this restaurant.” Powell flashed a smile when he pulled back and looked into her eyes.  “I made the reservation months ago.”  His hand came up and cupped Anthea’s face, this time planting a soft kiss on her mouth.  An earpiece discreetly placed on her ear as he pulled away.  “Let me grab a few more things from the car and we could…”

“Mayday! Mayday! Anyone! Terrorists have seized Nakatomi Building and are holding about 30 hostages!”  A sudden transmission from the police’s emergency channel came through both of their earpieces, interrupting Powell in mid-sentence.

Anthea widened her eyes.  That had sounded suspiciously like a certain DI she knew.

Registering that Powell had circled his arm around her waist and pulled her in close, Anthea realized her body was too tense for her role as a casual bystander.  She quickly willed herself to relax in the other agent’s warm embrace.  From the corner of her eyes, she noted the previously placid security guard was now standing up and frantically muttering into his earpiece.

Good.  He did not take notice of her blunder. 

“I will say again… Terrorists have….” 

Her high heels clicked loudly on the sidewalk while Powell quickly led them out of sight of the fake security guard. 

“Attention.  Whoever you are.  This open channel was reserved for emergency calls only.  If you keep prank calling…”  When a female police dispatcher’s disinterested voice interrupted the urgent message, Anteha snarled.

Oh, the clowns! 

Fuming, Anthea pulled away from Powell and tried to speak into the communicator.  But she was too late to say anything when profanity blasted through the transmission. 

“No fucking shit!  Lady!  Do I sound like I am ordering bloody Chinese take out??” 

Anthea allowed one tight smile, considering the situation they were in.  After 2 months of monitoring the DI per Mycroft’s order, she knew of DI Lestrade’s temper.  “This is Anthea.  Do you have my boss with you?”  Anthea spoke calmly, keenly aware that the terrorists were also tuning into this channel.  Not grasping the full situation, she was careful not to name either man in the transmission.  Mycroft must have helped for him to get a hold of this channel.  Things may be turning up.

...Except the incompetent police dispatcher sternly interrupted their communication yet again.  “Attention!  This is a police emergency channel.  You cannot….”

Anthea glanced at Powell with a look that could kill. 

Powell put up his hand, his eyes full of apologies.  He mouthed, ::I will take care of it,:: before he picked up his cell.

“Anthea! Christ.  There is a heist going on here at Nakatomi….  And those bastards…. They nailed him… oh fuck, they nailed Mycroft in the crossfire…”

Anthea held her breath.  DI Lestrade was no fool.  Naming Mycroft in an open channel would signal that he had already exposed himself to the terrorists.  Or that… 

Anthea stopped and would not go there.  She gripped the communicator and waited for the code word…. An indication that this was intended as a misdirection.

“...  It ripped through his throat.  Jesus Christ… I couldn’t… Couldn’t save him…His pendant, it came off and...”

_Yes.  Mycroft was alive._

Anthea exhaled and relaxed her grip on the communicator.  She squared her shoulder and mirrored Powell’s smile.

“Anthea.  We have to do something.  There are about 10 terrorists.  I got rid of one.  Leader is Hans Gruber…maybe German.  They got some high tech toys here.  Hostages are on 30th floor.”  There was an abrupt pause and Anthea felt unease crept up.  Thankfully, Lestrade continued before she started to bark out the order.

 “The bastards are doing something to the roof and they also wanted vault password.  So far they got Davin and Takagi.  Unsure about...”

Rounds of machine gun shots suddenly erupted and the transmission was cut off.

Anthea pulled out the earpiece with a violent jerk.

Powell anticipated.  “Concorde had just taken off 37 minutes ago.  ETA 11:35.”  He paused and eyed toward the approaching sirens. “And the local enforcement will be here soon.”

Anthea narrowed her eyes.  “It is about time.”

\-------

Standing on the roof, Lestrade leaned against the rails and rattled off the intel into the communicator.  He felt the cold concrete on his bare feet, but he didn’t care.  “Anthea.  We have to do something.  There are about 10 terrorists.  I got rid of one.  Leader was Hans Gruber…”   He pointed the machine gun at the door, the only access of the roof from the machine room. His eyes focused intently, waiting for anyone hostile that may come through.. “…may be German. They got some high tech toys here.  Hostages are on 30th floor.”

A sudden shadow at the door caught Lestrade’s eye and he tensed.  His finger hovered over the trigger.

The shadow flickered and disappeared.  Lestrade felt a cold shiver as he registered a faint sound of machine gun firing just beyond.  Holding his breath, he aligned his eye with the front sight of his machine gun.But the firing ceased just as quickly and Lestrade was left to listen to the rustle of his shirt in the wind.  Muscles tensed. His heart beat loudly in his chest.  He waited.

_Come on Mycroft… show me what you can do..._

It was another agonizing short moment when a hand holding a handgun finally appeared at the door, raised, in a surrendering position.  Lestrade relaxed when he recognized his own police-issued piece.  Fighting hard not to grin too widely, he continued to broadcast the information through the police emergency channel.  “The bastards are doing something to the roof and they also want vault password.”

The owner of the hand slowly came into view.  As Lestrade had expected, it was Mycroft.  The hand returned to resting position as soon as Lestrade’s eye connected with Mycroft’s.  Noting how at ease the British Government was now striding toward him, Lestrade let the smile plaster on his face freely.  Especially when he saw Mycroft was holding a black bag. 

“So far they got Davin and Takagi..unsure about...”  Lestrade rattled out a few more words into the communicator.  He then fired a round of gunshots into the air and abruptly clicked the communicator off.  “That should set their imagination for a wild ride.”  Lestrade grinned and quickly walked toward Mycroft to meet him halfway.  “So how many did we nail?”

“Three.  They were Marco, Henrich, and Kristoff.” 

Lestrade shook his head.  “Yeah, department of transport my arse.  You know, I never believed you.”  He slinged the machine gun over his shoulder.  “You think Anthea got all that?” 

“I do not doubt it.  You performed well, Inspector.”

Adrenaline coursed through his veins.  Lestrade felt his face flush and was proud at both himself and the man before him.

How could he have underestimated him so thoroughly?   Lestrade thought back all those meetings they had regarding Sherlock’s deeds and progresses over coffee.  His eyes strayed downward.  Those elegant fingers that had wrapped around the coffee cup were now gripping around his police issued piece snuggly…

At that thought, Lestrade inhaled sharply.  When he looked up, Lestrade caught Mycroft’s eyes, and he looked away hurriedly.  He did not want to find out how much better was the older Holmes at deducing people’s thoughts.  To his relief, the taller man didn’t say anything but twirled the handgun around his finger.  Holding the gun by its muzzle now, Mycroft offered the DI his handgun back.

Lestrade tried not to stare too much at those sinfully long fingers wrapping around his gun.  He swallowed.  Hard.  Lestrade quickly took his gun back and, to his horror, almost dropped the weapon when he was tugging it behind his back.

“And here are our supplies.”  If Mycroft had noticed his blunder, his impassive face didn’t show it.

Happy to have other things to preoccupy himself with, Lestrade peered into the opened black bag full of explosives, grenades, machine guns, and more handguns.  He whistled as he picked up a few magazines and shoveled into his back pocket.  “I think we got enough gifts to visit our uninvited guests.”  Lestrade watched Mycroft effortlessly picked up a new handgun from the bag, loaded it and then tug it behind his trouser, all in one smooth motion.

Lestrade not just heard but felt the humming from Mycroft resonated something deep inside of him.  “After you, James Bond.” 

_Bloody hell.  Can his heart beat any louder?_

“I was never in that division.”

“Right…”  As Lestrade followed Mycroft down the stairs back into the machine room, he noticed three bodies littered near the entrance of the roof.  He couldn't help but notice that two of them had a clean shot through their foreheads.  The third one had one in the left leg and the other in the chest.  Near the heart.

_Christ_.

“Sherlock was right.  You are the most dangerous man on earth.”

“We ambushed them.  Element of surprise helped.”

Lestrade grinned and caught up.

He was really liking this version of Mycroft.

-*-*-*

“Anthea!  Christ.  There is a heist going on here at Nakatomi….  And those bastards…. They nailed him… oh fuck, they nailed Mycroft in the crossfire…”

Hans Gruber stared into the communicator in disbelief.  All that planning…. And Mycroft was… dead?

“Hans, that man said Mycroft was dead.  Fuck.  And I can't get a hold of Tony on the comm.”

Hans turned his attention to Karl, fighting to maintain control.  He could not afford to waver.  Not in front of his men.  “Go check on your brother.  See if he still has him.”

Hans clinched his fists tight.

All that effort….

Fuck.  Fuck.  They should retreat now.  Without Mycroft, this mission was failed.  HE would not tolerate this…this debacle.  The van was still in the garage.  Police were not on the scene yet.  It would be easy to slip out unnoticed.  He just had to get Karl…

Shit.  Assuming the man was not lying about taking out one of them…and if that deadman was Tony… Karl would not agree to leave until he got his hands on that bastard…  Even if that meant that he had to tear down the building brick by brick…

This mess.  The fucking mess.  Who the hell was that man!  Security?  No.  They were just washouts on their ways to collect pensions.  Who the fuck was that man..

His eyes flickered toward the hostage couple that seemed to have recognized the voice on the communicator.

Grabbing a gun, Hans went straight at them.

If this all went downhill, he would be sure to drag whoever he could with him to hell.

-*-*

Mycroft did not like the predicament they were in at all.  It was too close. 

“Sherlock was right.  You are the most dangerous man on earth.” 

Mycroft half listened to Gregory as he analyzed frame by frame how he took down the three terrorists at the entrance to the roof.

It was really too close. 

Marco was dangerously close to breaching the perimeter.  The terrorist would have stormed the roof if he had not finally caught the terrorist in the leg at the last second.

Mycroft repressed a shudder.

He really should have thought of a better plan. Something that would get Gregory out of danger, instead of acting as a bait. 

But the rational part of him chided him.  His faked death would have 69 percent chance of aborting Hans operation, accounting all the factors that he knew about.  Anthea would recognize the DI’s voice on the comm and knew not to leave behind Gregory, even if Mycroft himself was to expire.  He was undoubtedly a better sniper, suited for ambush mission.  He would be better to protect Gregory in the shadows...

Oh… But he did overestimate his own ability didn't he?

The retired MI-6 pointedly did not look into the directions of his two stray bullets embedded in the wall.  Those were the embodiment of his failures. “We ambushed them.  Element of surprise helped.”   Mycroft breathed uneasily.  He couldn’t rely on the surprise too much longer.  They would need to strike first and fast.

“So, what’s the plan to catch the rest of the fish?  Gotta strike while it is hot yeah?”

Stunned, Mycroft looked up to the grinning policeman next to him.  Despite his worriness, an irrational happiness of how their thoughts seemed to sync blossomed inside him.

Mycroft squashed the inappropriate pleasantness down immediately.  “It is highly probable that Gruber would turn on the hostages after our next encounter.  We will need to be able to improvise on the spot.  Proximity to hostages would be advantageous to maximize success rate.”   Mycroft considered.

The 30th floor plan was effortlessly pulled from his mind palace.  A row of offices were linked by the tight narrow hallway.  The glass window and frosted doors could be a smokescreen.  “Distraction and surprise would be critical.”  Ten minutes to sustain chaos.  Two assets.  Six grenades.  Two machine guns.  Three handguns.  Five explosive packs.  Initiate assault from stairwell.  Most likely Three guards to hostages.  Cover….  Machine guns to fire and draw attention from the office?  No.  Too much setup time in office.  Grenades, unreliable.  Explosives.  Rig the timing device… Three.. No..  Two minutes would do… Gregory would have to...

“A trap yeah?  Well, How about that?” 

Mycroft blinked and followed to where the silver-haired policeman was pointing.  Understanding dawned on him like the first rain in the spring.

An elevator.  Interesting.  His Gregory proved to be the most practical yet creative man. 

“And I know exactly how to draw their attention.  Are you able to help me with some fireworks?  Don’t want to blow up the whole building if you know what I mean.”  The twinkling in the silver haired policeman’s eyes sparked warmness in the Iceman.

Mycroft tried to maintain his neutral expression, but wasn't sure if he had succeeded.

-*-*-*

“Where the hell am I?”  John Watson woke in darkness, shivering.  Raking his hair with his fingers, he cocked his head.  For the life of him, he could not remember drinking before he passed out.  It felt like a bus had ran him over.  Twice.

Bloody hell, wasn't he in the clinics typing up a report? 

“Sherlock?”  John tried to stand up, but felt the restraint holding him back. 

Like a switch flipped, his attention immediately sharpened into focus.  Ignoring his headaches, he opened and closed his fists.  His breathing slowed and evened.  A calm washed over him as his eyes adjusted to the environment around him.

“Dr. Watson.  Please stay seated.  We are hitting turbulence right now.”

John narrowed his eyes.  The men in suits around him had evoked an unpleasant deja vu, reminding him of the time when he had been kidnapped off a street in a black limousine… except this time, it was a damn plane apparently. 

_For the love of…  Does Mycroft know nothing of basic human interactions?_

John sighed audibly.  The sad thing was, he was not even surprised…. not when you were acquainted with the Holmes...

At that thought, John sat up straight and was alarmed.  He looked around, confirming that Sherlock was not on the plane.  “Did something happen to Sherlock?”  He enunciated carefully, his chest constricted. 

“We were under strict time restraint and were not able to retrieve Mr. Holmes’s younger brother in time.  Allow me to brief you…”

Sinking into the leather seat slightly, John breathed more easily while he listened to the young agent retelling the rescue mission that he was forcibly recruited for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah.. finally returned home. I certainly missed my computer. 
> 
> This chapter contained many different POVs at the same timeline.. so I hope it had worked and not too confusing :)
> 
> As usual, thanks again for all the kudos, comments, and subscription :)


	7. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade headed to LA to fix his marriage. What he didn't expect was to be stuck in a heist situation. To make things worse, Mycroft Holmes was caught up in this impossible situation as well...
> 
> Inspired by the movie Die Hard, where Greg Lestrade = John McClane, with extra plot twists thrown into the mix.  
> Cheers.

Chapter 7: The Hunt

Now that he knew what to look for, everything became as clear as day.

The way the tip of Mycroft’s ears pinked when Lestrade ACCIDENTALLY brushed against his bare hand.  The way the corner of his mouth, even when pressed into a thin line, twitched when Lestrade said something witty (given the circumstances of course.) 

It was unbelievably adorable.  Unbelievably endearing.  Unbelievably…. arousing.

Not that Lestrade would say that directly to the _face_ of the British Government, who clearly intended to remain as impassive as he had been.  No.  No.  Lestrade could do better than that.  Much much better.  The silver fox  would have eaten up the space between them, and whispered the sweet praises into that undoubtedly sensitive ear, words he had never uttered in the existence of their long years of acquaintance. And he intended to watch that ear go pinker and redder than it had ever been.  Savor in the sight of that mouth gaping open like a fish out of water.

Oh, Lestrade would make that mask crumble and fall.  Stir and ripple that calmness.  Make that...

“Inspector.”

_Christ.  This was not good._

Lestrade blinked and forcibly pulled himself back to the reality.   Though that velvety voice really was not helping at all.

_Bloody hell.  You need to focus. There are 30 some hostages depending on us._

“The amount of explosive here should enable us to blast half of the floor.   We could send these down with the elevator,  but what would you suggest to draw their attention toward the elevator car? ” 

Lestrade grinned.  “Thought you never asked.”  Years after working with Sherlock, he had learned how to flaunt that dramatic flair like a peacock.

He quickly dragged the body of one of the terrorists and hoisted it onto a swivel chair.  Doubling his steps to the machine room closet, he then proudly produced a toolbox.  He rummaged through it and took out a masking tape.  “There you go, Mycroft.  Have your way to strap those explosives on the body!” 

Now, play-it-by-ear was definitely his territory.   Who needs those awesome high tech spy toys!

Lestrade did not miss the brief smile spreading across Mycroft’ face before the man caught himself and quickly squashed that beautiful smile into oblivion.

_How a mixture of disappointment and hope could be so bitter and sweet._

Chiding himself silently for having his mind wandered yet again, the policeman concentrated and watched in fascination as those elegant fingers worked to covered the torso of the dead body with explosives.

When Mycroft was done, Lestrade quickly shrugged himself out of his shirt, leaving only his white undershirt on.   He then dressed the dead body with his shirt, buttoning up and taking care to cover the explosives.   Grabbing the masking tape, he then fixed the body firmly on the swivel chair.   Lestrade looked around.   Finding a red permanent marker in the toolbox, he uncapped it and dropped his knees in front of the body to write on the shirt in large capitalized letters.

Upon hearing a clearing of throat, Lestrade looked up and saw Mycroft arched his eyebrow.

Lestrade grinned.  “Don’t look at me like that.”  He ducked back down and finished writing out :::NOW I HAVE YOUR MACHINE GUNS.  HO. HO. HO::: on the shirt.

“It’s our human nature.”  Leaving the marker on the floor, he pushed himself up to his feet.  He kicked the chair into the elevator, currently kept open by a jammed trashcan.  “We are curious animals.  The writing would draw those bastards into the elevator car.  And let’s hope we get as many of them as possible.”

Watching a myriad of emotions quickly flickered through the man before him, Lestrade felt a swell of warmth permeated through his being.   As he counted each and every one of those endearing tell-tale signs paraded in front of him (as subtle as they were), he wondered how he could have missed them all these bloody years.

“You impressed me, Inspector.”

Lestrade beamed.  Not that he was hopeful, but he swore he heard… something… other than the usual flat tone of his. 

_After this heist is settled, there will be talks._ Lestrade promised himself.  _Lots and lots of talks.  And they WILL sort this out._

As he watched the taller man removing the trash can from the elevator to send the elevator car down to the 30th floor, Lestrade suddenly remembered something.  “Ah, wait, let me see if this sodding bastard’s shoes would fit me.”   Lestrade stopped Mycroft from entering the elevator.  “I am getting sick of feeling cold all the times…”

As the silver haired policeman stepped into the elevator while Mycroft moved to the side, Lestrade heard Mycroft’s scream before he felt the searing heat and pain blossomed on his left shoulder blade.

“Gregory!!”

The impact slammed Lestrade against the elevator wall.  Grunting, he steady his feet.  He flung himself to the control panel and pressed the 30th floor button.  “Get in, Mycroft!”  He could see on the far side of the room, the silhouette of a gunman half hidden behind the partially opened door to the stairwell.

“Take the detonator.  Remember.  The red button to initiate.  Pull the wires to abort the mission.” 

Catching the device that Mycroft threw to him, he watched the retired MI-6 agent anchored himself in front of the opened elevator door, his handgun drawn.  “He is going to call in.   I will take care of him.”

“No.  No.  No.  You don't get to do that.  I will…”. Lestrade tried to insert his hand between the fast closing doors, but failed.

_Mycroft.  Mycroft.  MYCROFT!!_

When the elevator door shut, the last thing he heard were the 2 firing shots.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Karl could not track down the elusive man.  Although the terrorist only caught a glimpse of the man in front of the elevator door before he ducked out of sight, he was certain that was Mycroft Holmes.

The mission has not failed.  And most importantly, he was going to make them pay.  The terrorist tried to dispel the mental image of Tony lying in a pool of his own blood on the conference room floor. 

_Oh, he would make them pay._

Karl carefully stalked toward where he had seen his prey.

“Come out.  I promise I won’t hurt you.”  The word “bad” was unvoiced at the end of the sentence.

Karl rounded the exhaust pipe in a swift motion.  His gun pointed and found no one.  “Shit.” He muttered as he silently crouched down, eyes scanning for Mycroft’s feet.

Suddenly, the terrorist caught a shadow of an object thrown at him.   By pure reflex, he ducked and immediately recognized it as a grenade.  He scrambled backwards, quickly taking cover under another exhaust pipe.

The terrorist braced himself when the grenade exploded.

By the time Karl whirled around, eyes flickering to the exit, he could only see the stairwell door swinging slowly to close.

“FUCK!”

In a fit of anger, he shot a few more rounds of bullets into the room aimlessly.  He inhaled deeply and smoothed his damped hair.   He would need more manpower to flush out this mouse.

And then he would get him.  And when he does, he would break every bone in his body and then twice.   Their employer had made clear that as long as Mycroft is alive and able to talk, he didn’t care what condition he is.

Rounding his shoulder back, he took out his communicator.  The machine room was loud, so he yelled into the communicator.

“Hans. Holmes is alive.  Do you copy me?  Hans?”   Karl narrowed his eyes as he heard only statics coming out of the communicator.

“Hans.  He…”

Before Karl could finish his sentence, he felt the coldness of a gun muzzle pressed against the back of his neck. 

Long fingers came from behind him, blocking his view as they snatched his communicator away.

“I would suggest that you drop your gun.”  The voice behind him was smooth and calm.

“You won’t hurt me.”  Recognizing it was Mycroft, Karl said defiantly, still holding onto his gun.

The man behind him was mildly bemused.  “And what evidence gives you that impression?”

“Because you are a government official.  There are rules for a people like you.”

“You are sadly mistaken.  Rules do not apply to me.”

Karl screamed as Mycroft suddenly grabbed and twisted his arm awkwardly behind him.  Gun dropped on the floor noisily.

“I made the rules.”  His captor said coldly, pressing and twisting in his arm further up.  Harsh.

A sickening sound of bone breaking was heard before Karl even registered the pain.  Involuntarily, he kneeled, howling in pain.

“Now, I will need you to tell me everything.  And perhaps…”  The devil named Mycroft finished the sentence in a perfectly neutral tone, as if he were merely discussing the weather over a cup of coffee.  “I will consider to give you a quick release.”

Karl felt another searing pain radiated from his shoulder blades as his own knife drove in deep.

-*-*-*-*-*-

Lestrade stared as the buttons lit up on the elevator control panel.

34th floor.

Lestrade had every chance to push the button, stopping the elevator so he could run upstairs to help Mycroft.  His heart pounded as his finger hovered over the control panel.

33th floor.

Fuck.  FUCK!  There was no time.  He trusted Mycroft.   If he could take care of 3 terrorists, one more wouldn’t make a difference.

_There was no other way._

_He trusted Mycroft.  He trusted Mycroft._

Lestrade bit his lips and tugged the detonator in his waistband.  Raising the machine gun, he poked open the ceiling cover of the elevator car.

32nd floor.

Using the chair and the dead body as make shift stepping stool, he hoisted himself to the top of the elevator car through the opening, wincing as a shot of pain radiated from his shoulder.

31st floor.

Squatting down, Lestrade grabbed hold of the grease covered cable to maintain his balance on the slowing elevator car.    He gently closed the cover.  He then quickly surveyed his surroundings, immediately locating the vertical metal catwalk running along the wall of the elevator shaft.

_This is a terrible idea_.

The elevator slowed down even more as it approached its destination.

_“Please don't let me fall.  Please don't let me fall.”_

Lestrade muttered under this breath and jumped.

In that split second of horror, the silver haired policeman felt his fingers knocked against the cold concrete wall rather than the metal bar he was hoping.  And then he slipped. 

“Fuck!”

Gravity continued to pull him down as Lestrade frantically moved all his limbs trying to catch a hold of something.   And then miraculously, his bare foot caught a footing on the metal ladder and his right hand followed suite.   He wrapped his fingers around the welcoming cold of the metal bar, pulling himself up and resting on the vertical metal catwalk.

“Christ, Mycroft.”  He could barely catch a breath.  “I hope you got a better end of the deal than I did.”

30th floor.

The elevator chimed and the door opened.

_No turning back now._

-*-*-*-*

Hans Gruber gripped the collar of the man in blue pinstripe suit and pulled him up roughly to his feet.  The hostages around him scampered away quickly, leaving only a woman clutching to his pants.

“No!  No!”  The woman pleaded. 

Hans ignored her and focused his attention on the man.  “What do you know about the man calling for help?”  He bared his teeth.

“He was just a friend!  I invited him and….”

“What was his name?”

Hans watched the man hesitated and his anger flared.  Still locking his eyes with the man, Hans pulled his gun, the cold muzzle pressed into his cheek.

“What. Was. His. Name.”

“No!  no.  Oh god.  just take it easy.. oh god, take it easy.” 

“No! Ellis!  No!”

Hans strike the woman on the temple with his gun and heard the expected sound of her body crashing against the floor. 

“Holly!” 

Terrorist brought the gun back up and this time, trained it between the man’s eyes.

The hostage swallowed.  “Lestrade.”  He repeated again, softer.  “Greg Lestrade.”

“What. Does. He. Do?”

“Oh God. oh God… I swear….”  The man panted.  “ I could get him down here.  Just don’t.. just don’t hurt me.   Just don’t hurt us… Oh God.  oh God..”

Just as Hans started to force the couple toward one of the offices, the communicator suddenly came to live and then the mumble words against a noisy background could be barely heard.  “Hans…..  alive…   copy… Hans...”

Hans pushed the two hostages on the floor.  Placing the communicator closer to his ears, Hans furrowed his eyebrows.  It was hard to make out the words.

“Come again!”  The terrorists barked impatiently.  It was not just the noise, there were statics coming from the communicator.

“... he..”

And then, as abruptly as it started, the communicator went dead.

Just as Hans stared at the communicator, pondering what to do, the elevator chimed and opened.

-*-*-*-*

“Who is in charge here?”

“He is.”  Anthea made herself appeared as small as possible and pointed to Powell.  She made sure there were quiver in her slightly higher pitched voice.

“Not any more.”  The Police chief dismissed her immediately and drew his attention to the tall suited man.  He did not notice that the slander woman had slipped into the darkness, along with the black leather bag she was carrying.

“I am Powell.  My boss was held hostage in Nakatomi building.”

“Dwayne Robinson.”  Identifying himself, the police chief’s voice was clipped.  “You the one that got my boss to breath down my neck on a Friday evening?”

“Sir.  I mean no disrespect.  It was the best I could do under the circumstances.”

The police chief rubbed his face hard.  “Fucking hell.   What exactly does your boss do?”

“He occupies a minor position in the British government.”

“A minor posi…  Jesus Christ.”  The obviously hot tempered police chief could barely contain his anger.  “Then why the hell did the mayor himself make it sound like as if the queen herself got trapped here?”

“Sir.  Please.  We need to extract him quickly.  He…”

“What do they want?”  The police chief waved impatiently, cutting him off. 

“We haven’t heard anything from the terrorists yet…”

The police chief Robison walked toward the building lobby.  He noted that there was a security guard still sitting there behind the locked glass door.   He glared at Powell and shook his head at the peaceful building.  “Are you sure your boss didn’t just skip town and have a party without you?”  Robinson snorted.

“Sir.  If I may...”

Before Robinson could bark more insults, an object suddenly came crashing through the sky.

“Fuck!”

Both Robinson and Powell covered their heads with their arms and only looked after the sickening sound of the object smashing against the cold stone floor had settled.

They cautiously walked toward the object, noting the broken glasses littering everywhere.   “Jesus Christ…”

They found a body lying in the middle of the fragments.   The words “operation 237” was clearly written on the bloody shirt in black ink.

Even with the blood smeared face, Powell immediately recognized that the body belonged to the terrorist named Karl Fuchs.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No POV from Mycroft this chapter.. a little bit sad :) But I hope it did illustrate how BAMF Mycroft is.. :) as usual, thanks for the comments, kudos, and subscriptions!


	8. The Explosion

Chapter 8: The Explosion

While Sherlock loved Wagner, Mycroft much preferred the introspectiveness of Chopin.  Rarely the one to go for the flare of symphony and operas, Chopin mostly sticked with solo piano pieces.  And Mycroft, qualified to be a professional pianist if he ever bothered, loved and knew all of Chopin’s work by heart.   He played it, used it, and embraced it.   He allowed the music to replace his emotion and to guide his movements.

As he advanced quietly in the darkness toward his prey, his favorite composer’s Nucturne E Flat Major Op.9 No.2 was currently playing in his mind. 

After watching in horror how the red blossomed on HIS INSPECTOR’s shoulder,  Mycroft needed that quiet piece.   He knew his Gregory was not badly hurt. The bullet grazed his Gregory’s shoulder and was lodged in the wall of the elevator.  But the fact that he was hurt was driving Mycroft mad.   He could see red and could think nothing else but red.  

And then the small part of him recognized that this was not going to help with the situation.   So he effortlessly slipped into his past self.  In his mind palace, he gracefully sat down at the beautiful black Steinway grand piano.  His fingers paused in mid air before he danced his fingers along the keyboard with fluid motions.  The sound of  his favorite Nocturne piece filled his mind,  wrapping up his warring emotions and keeping them tightly under the surface.   

Contrarily to what others had often think, he was not called the Iceman for his ruthless yet impeccable manner at the negotiation table.  No, his reputation came much much earlier than that. 

At this moment as he stalked his prey, his face was that of a frozen lake in a cold winter.   But within, the graceful sound laced with thoughtfulness sharpened his mind.  The fluidity of the melody propelled his long body into action.   Void of any expressions, he was a puppet guided by music, with one single act to perform.

A grenade for distraction.  A gun for intimidation.  And a few words were exchanged, as minimum as Mycroft could manage, for he truly despised to interrupt the music in his head.

And then the glint of the knife followed by splatters of crimson red.   The soft thoughtful sound of music came to a slight crescendo as he took in the information spilled from the dying man’s lips.

Mycroft mourned the inevitable end of the music.  But he knew what to do, as the music had indicated to him so clearly.

His mind processed the confession from the terrorist robotically and logically before he made up his decision.

He took the marker abandoned on the floor and wrote the message across the dying man’s chest. 

A push and Mycroft was walking away from the broken window, letting the last bits of sound, real or imagined, slowly falling into the darkness.

As soon as this last note was played, Mycroft imagined his fingers hovered right above the piano keys, waiting for the sound to resolve itself.

And when it did, Mycroft breathed and came back to himself. 

He glanced at the elevator and noted that it had stopped at the 30th floor.   As he had expected.  His Gregory had proceeded with the plan.

He would not fail him.

  * *- *-*-*-*-*-*



Hearing the elevator door chimed, Lestrade continued to quickly climb upward on the vertical catwalk in the elevator shaft.  He finally reached perforated air ventilation on a higher floor.  With two hands gripping the metal bars tightly, he curled up his feet toward his chest, swung his body outward, and then landed his feet squarely on the ventilation cover,  throwing his exhausted body into the narrow duct.

He let out a painful groan as he landed harshly on the metal.    Crawling on his elbows and knees, he moved deeper into the narrow space.  He abruptly stopped.  He took the detonator out and stared at the red button.

Mycroft had said the explosive they had would only take out half of the room.    When Lestrade was watching him strapping the explosives on the hostage bodies, he had only seen a handful on the body and not all.  

_He would have to trust Mycroft to limit the explosion only to the elevator area._

He sucked in a deep breath, praying that the explosion would take out as many of those bastards as possible.

Biting down his lips, he pressed the button.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“What the fuck!”

Hearing his men’s exclamation, Hans Gruber turned his head toward the direction of the opened elevator, his fingers never released his hostage.

“FUCK! That bastard killed Marco!”  

Hans narrowed his eyes and could see the bloody body propped against the chair, the red letters smeared across the chest.

“The fucker wrote something…”  Hans watched two of his men dashed into the elevator.   One of the men, Franco, pulled the shirt closer to his eyes.  “Now I have your machine gun… Ho… Ho… Fuck!  Wha the fuck!”

_Something was wrong._

Hans felt an unease slowly crept up, but couldn’t pin-point what had triggered it. His eyes dashed madly around the body in the elevator, looking for clues.

_Why sent the body down an elevator to gloat?_

“What the fuck.”  Another one of his men abandoned his post and ran into the elevator.     “We need to get this guy.   I am going to gut him for what he did…”

And then Hans eyes landed on the red lettering.  And the shirt.

_That was not Marco's shirt._

_That was not Marco's shirt, and Marco was not that bulky._

The gears in Hans Gruber’s mind turned slowly to make sense of the connections, while trying to screen out the shoutings of his men.  And then, when all of it came together, it clicked with a sickening realization.

_It was a trap.  A fucking trap!_

“Get out!”  Hans yelled.  He pushed away the hostages roughly and started toward the elevator.  “Get out!!!”

But before he could even make 2 steps, he felt the ground shook and then the sudden heat wave hit him before he fully registered what had happened.

He watched a ball of fire engulfed the body, talking three of his men with it.

And Hans Gruber roared.

-*-*-*-*-*

As soon as Lestrade felt the shaking and then heard the explosion, he quickly crawled deeper into the ventilation duct.   He kicked out a cover and dropped himself into a room full of computers.   He would need to quickly get to 30th floor.  God knows what the explosion had done.

Doubling his pace toward the stairwell and having his mind occupied, Lestrade failed to notice his surroundings and bumped into something coming from his left.

The policeman held his footings, but his eye widened, watching a young man losing his balance and falling on the ground.   Time seem to freeze as the two stared at each other in shock before the geeky looking young man suddenly raised his hands and cowered.  

“Oh my god… please.. please don’t kill me.. please don’t…  I know it.. you are one of THEM…”

Lestrade stared at the young man shaking uncontrollably and his protective instinct kicked in.  “Wow.. easy mate.   I won’t hurt you.  Who are you?  Why are you here?”  He tried to project a smooth voice.

“I… I work for the IT department.. I thought I could use the computer to send out a signal… oh God.. you are not one of them are you?”

“God no.  I am not them.”  Lestrade extended his uninjured hand, allowing the young man to grab it and pulling him up.  “Forget about sending for help.  They jammed the signal and cut the communications. You want to stay alive?   You keep moving.  Hey, you heard me?”  Lestrade watched in satisfaction as the young man nodded.

“You… you are… British?”

“Well…”  Knowing how he must have looked, with hair matted and shirt stained with blood, Lestrade tried to present a harmless smile as best as he could.  “I hope I don’t sound that posh or stuck up for you to recognize I am a British...”

“No… no…”  The young man looked amused.  “Not at all…  those.. those monsters had an accent.  I don’t think they are British.  I am just glad you are not one of them.    There was a party… a celebration party... and all of the a sudden those monsters were there… shooting,.. and threatening us... ”

“Here…”  Lestrade tried to calm the young man down, seeing that his body started to shake again.  “You smoke?”  He dug around his pocket and offered his cigarettes.

The young man took it gratefully and Lestrade fetched out his lighter and lit it up for both of them.

The young man inhaled and exhaled,  staring at Lestrade’s lighter briefly.  “So you were the one that triggered the fire alarm with that lighter?”

Lestrade was just considering how to keep the young man safe while moving down to the 30th floor.   But the question made Lestrade paused.

_It was a bit odd to be asking that, wasn’t it?_

The young man before him spoke in authentic American accent.  But then, Lestrade had never seen any of the terrorists.  If those bloody actors could lose their accents, who was to say terrorists couldn’t fake accents too?

Trying to appear relaxed, Lestrade shrugged  “Yeah.. I was hoping it would bring the police but didn’t work out that well.”  He casually glanced around as he smoked.   “By the way, I am Greg.  Greg Lestrade.  What is your name?”

“William Clay.”  The young man nervously answered.  “My friends call me Bill.”

“Well, Bill, have you handle a gun before?”  Lestrade took out the handgun, he dropped the old magazine and popped in a new one before he handed to Bill.

“... Just.. just the video games…”   Lestrade could see Bill’s eyes were wide.  Pupils dilated. 

_That could mean many things._

Lestrade held on to his hopes.  “Welcome to the real world, kid.”  Lestrade passed the handgun to Bill.  “Just aim and pull the trigger.”  Lestrade turned, exposing his back to the young man that he had just handed a weapon. 

It wasn’t even a second before he heard a click to unlock the safety on the handgun.

Exhaling another puff of smoke, Lestrade sighed and turned around, watching the young man aiming at him with one steady hand.   His other hand had a communicator pressing to his lips.  “Hans.. Come in.  This is Theo.  I am on the 32nd floor.  I found the rat.   His name is Greg Lestrade.  Holmes in not with him.”   The American accent was all but gone.

“That was clever, with the accent.”  Sometimes, Lestrade hated when he was right.  He truly hoped that he was one of the good guys.  One of these days, he shouldn’t be so trusting in the beginning.   Lestrade pulled up his machine gun and aimed at the young man who was definitely not Bill.   “Why are you looking for Mycroft?”

“Not your business anymore!”  The terrorist pulled the trigger impulsively, but nothing happened. 

Click -Click-Click.  Nothing still.  The young terrorist stared at the gun with disbelief. Lestrade almost pitied him.

Stepping in to reclaim his handgun, Lestrade smiled at how astonished the terrorist looked,.  “Too green, kid.  Too green.”  He popped out the empty magazine and replaced with a fully loaded one.  “Can’t even figure out that the gun was empty, huh?”

"Theo. Come in! Get Lestrade. Prefer alive but dead is just as fine." The response came through the communicator. 

Not giving him any chance to respond, Lestrade hit Theo with the back of his handgun, rendering him unconscious on the floor.  He plucked the communicator from Theo’s hand.  “Well well. Isn't this the infamous Hans Gruber. How do you like my gift?  Mr. Gruber. It was too bad you were not the one receiving it.”

"GREG LESTRADE!” The sound bellowed through the communicator with unconcealable venom. “You will pay.”   

The clipped yet hateful words confirmed that their trap had at least got some of those bastards.   But instead of elation, Lestrade suddenly felt sick to his stomach. 

_He knew my name. Christ. He knew my name._

He became keenly aware that he was not on the 30th floor.  He was in no where NEAR the hostages.

_Shit.  Mycroft was right.  He is going to take out on the hostages. Christ. He is going to know about Holly._

Lestrade turned and rushed down the stairs.  The fucking little terrorist had delayed his plan to get there. Now he was nowhere near the hostages.

All handbooks talking about hostages situation all indicated that, never under any circumstances, should one ever sound desperate.   But Lestrade was desperate.  Very desperate.

Still running down the stairs, he pressed the communicator.  “Don’t you dare touch them!”  He screamed into the little box.  “You want revenge?  You come at me!!!”  He gripped the communicator tightly.  “You fucking hear me?”

But no reply came.  Nothing.

_Fuck… fuck.. FUCK!_

Lestrade’s heart pounded furiously as he ran down toward 30th floor.

_Christ… Please not the hostages…. Please not the hostages..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took awhile.. I had try to explore what goes on in Mycroft's head.. not sure if all that worked. Also need to show off Lestrade a bit.. hope he was clever enough to spot that little terrorist...  
> Thanks again for all the kudos, comments, and subscriptions.
> 
> Fixed some of the silly mistakes


	9. The Choice

Chapter 9: The Choice

Hans Gruber roared, allowing his raw emotion to display in front of the burning elevator and his dead comrades before he forcibly internalized it all.  He pushed it all down, until he could feel his cold reasoning sputtering back online. He smoothed his hair.

The fucking explosion of the elevator had taken out another 3 men.  He didn’t even know if his target, Mycroft Holmes was alive or dead…

_They need to go in hiding.  Quickly.  They need to get out of here.  Whoever left._

With that determination, he reset the channel to their internal one.   “Karl.”  Hans waited.   As he had feared, there was no response.  Pressing his lips, Hans drummed the fingers on his thigh before he quickly made up his mind.

“Eddie.”  Jamming the communicator in between his head and shoulder, Hans picked up his handgun, ejecting the magazine, inspecting, and then loading it back.  “Re-establish the phone.   Set the trap and get up here.  30th floor.   We are leaving.  Plan C.” 

“Boss, LAPD are outside, possibly Feds as well.   What happen up there?   I heard…”

“Shut up and listen.”  Hans hissed.  “Can you re-establish the phone line?”  With one hand still holding the gun, he tapped on the table impatiently with the other.  He could hear movement on the other line before Eddie reported back.

“Done.  Boss.  The phone should be working now.  Setup complete.  I will be up in a few minutes.”

“Lobby Elevator is dead.  Take the utility elevator on the east side.”

“Copy.”

Hans strode quickly toward a desk and picked up a phone.   He paused, eyeing at the cowering hostages still in the center of room.  With the fire still burning in the elevator,  they were either in shock or confused.

_Good.  That will buy him sometime._

He dialed the police emergency hotline.  “Attention.  This is Hans Gruber at the Nakatomi Building, tell the LAPD that are currently parking outside of MY building to call me back.”  He slammed the phone without hearing the response and waited. 

Coldly looking at the hostages in front of him, he unlocked the safety on the handgun. 

The phone rang immediately.   And then twice.

Hans smiled and let it go for the third ring before he picked up.

“This is Hans Gruber.  Who is in charge?”

“Chief Dwayne Robinson here.   Mr. Gruber, any demands you…”

Hans pointed the handgun into the middle of the hostages and fired. 

Screams immediately erupted in the room.  But no one dared to move as Hans fired 2 more shots to both sides of the hostages, effectively keeping the ring formation intact while the level of screams went up another notch.  Hans then directed the phone toward the sound, smiling as he watched the hysteria and chaos unfolded before him.

He let the screams soaked in for a good few seconds before he turned the phone back to himself and calmly spoke into the receiver.  “You heard that?  That is 30 hostages, perhaps 29 now, in your hand.  I want a chopper on the roof in 15 minutes.  This floor and above are lined with C4 all over.  If I sense anything funny, I blow the whole thing up and take down everyone here with me.”

Not waiting for any reply, Hans clicked the phone off.   Savoring a moment of satisfaction, he then proceeded to call Theo. 

At that exact moment, a transmission came through, beating him to it.  “Hans.. Come in.  This is Theo.  I am on the 32nd floor.  I found the rat.   His name is Greg Lestrade.  Holmes in not with him.”  

_Finally.  Something is turning up._

Hans smiled. 

_Theo found Lestrade on the computer floor.  32nd floor.   Karl should have been on the roof or the conference room.   That rat couldn’t have been at two places at once.  Either there are two loose cannons or…_

He took a deep breath and considered carefully.  He had not seen Mycroft Holmes’ body.

_Holmes is most likely still alive, pulling strings in the dark most likely._

_“_ How do you like my gift?  It was too bad you were not the one receiving it.”Hans smiled vanished as he heard Theo’s voice replaced by Lestrade. 

“GREG LESTRADE!”  Hans Gruber hissed. 

_No.  Not Theo too.  Who the fuck is this guy?   He couldn’t be working by himself.  It was unthinkable that he could take down almost all of his men!_

“You will pay!”  Hans Gruber spit the words venomously before he violently clicked it off, severing the communication.  

_That fucking rat will come.  He knows what is at stake.  It is time to round up the rats.  Lestrade and Holmes._

From his peripheral vision, Hans saw Eddie joined him.  He gestured at him, instructing to round up the hostages.  After he had set that in motion,  Hans turned his attention back to the couple that knew Greg Lestrade.  Smiling with all teeth, he walked over to them with gun in his hand.

_The good news is, he will not be going home empty handed after all.  He has a Holmes to catch._

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

When Mycroft quietly slipped through the door from the stairwell onto 30th floor, all the focus was on the elevator caught on fire. Mycroft could see Hans Gruber’s attention was on the hostages, a gun in his hand as he was talking into the phone.

_He had established the phone line._

The former MI-6 smiled as he stealthily maneuvered himself to the row of offices.  He picked the office with the best vantage point and slipped in, leaving the door cracked open.  

Shot fired and the screams ensued.

“You heard that?  That is 30 hostages, perhaps 29 now, in your hand.  I want a chopper on the roof in 15 minutes.  This floor and above are lined with C4 all over.”

Listening to Hans Gruber’s demands, Mycroft gingerly took out his cell phone and checked the reception.

_The jammer was also disabled._

“If I sense anything funny, I blow the whole thing up and take down everyone here with me.”

Immediately, Mycroft’s long fingers flew through the tiny keypad of his blackberry.

::Yield to demand.  Anthea on chopper.  Powell on ground.:: 

The reply was instant.

::Copy::

And then another text came almost immediately.

::Welcome back, Sir::

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched slightly upward.  Anthea rarely was this polite.  She must have been worried.  Just as he was going to type more, Mycroft then heard the transmission.

“Hans.. Come in.  This is Theo.  I am on the 32nd floor.  I found the rat.   His name is Greg Lestrade.  Holmes in not with him.”  

_No. No. No no no no no..._

The British Government’s heart sank.  But he didn’t let the situation paralyze him.  Instead, his fingers flew over the keypad even faster.

::Initiate Operation 237.  Extract Lestrade at all cost.::

::It will not come to that, Sir.   Your safety is my priority.   Stairwell is unobstructed.  Head down and we can extract you first.::

Mycroft resisted the urge to grit his teeth.

::Follow the protocol.  Operation 237.  Extract Lestrade.  Acknowledge it, agent.::

 _“_ How do you like my gift?  It was too bad you were not the one receiving it.”

Mycroft relaxed slightly as he heard the familiar sound of his Gregory came through the transmission.  The levity of his Gregory’s voice calmed him.  He almost smiled with satisfaction when he heard the angry words from Hans Gruber.   But Mycroft’s cold eyes stayed on his blackberry.

He could not believe a pending insubordination was unfolding under his command. 

This was his choice, not hers.

He had already issued the protocol on the dead man’s body thrown off the building.   He could not  guarantee that she saw it, nor could he risk her deny seeing it.   He needed her explicit acknowledgment.

Minutes passed and still no reply.

Mycroft’s eyes hardened.   Just as he started to type out the consequence to Anthea, the terse reply finally came.

::Acknowledged::

_She will uphold her promise._

Satisfied, he backspaced the unsent text.   Slipping his blackberry into his pocket, Mycroft shifted his undivided attention back to the situation unfolding before him.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Jesus  Christ!”

Powell saw Robinson yanked the earpiece off.

“Sir.  The terrorist at the lobby is gone.”  A policeman quickly offered his observation.

“That fucker wants a helicopter.”

“The SWAT team is here.  Do we go in?  Or send the helicopter?”  The same policeman asked.

Powell stepped in.  “Chief Robinson.   Hans Gruber is a ruthless terrorist.  It may be wise to yield to his demand for now.   We have a helicopter standing by, with capable pilot.”

“Capable?”  Robinson arched his eyebrow.

“With a set of unique skills you may need.”  Powell added.

Robinson huffed.  “The guy in the lobby is gone.  They must be desperate.  My SWAT team is more than CAPABLE.”

“Sir.. our intelligence…”

“Did you not hear that crazy sonofabitch?  Damn if I just wait and leave him to slaughter those hostages. If I go in now, at least I could get some of them out.”

“With all due respect…”

Robinson waved Powell off.  Turning to his subordinate, he barked.  “Send in the SWAT team.  Get those bastards.”

Under the command, a group of men clad in black moved stealthily toward the lobby door.  When they reached the destination, one of the SWAT team member worked to unlock the door quietly. 

“Sir.  I would not advise this course of action.  Our intel indicates that..”

Robinson looked into the night vision binocular and smiled when he saw the hand signal coming from the SWAT team.  “Paul is it?”

“It is Powell, sir.  I must inform you that Hans Gruber is versatile in explo...”

“Be quiet.  Powell.  Watch and learn….”  Robinson silenced Powell as he gave the green light to the team.

Receiving the go ahead, the SWAT team settled in formation.  As one of the men yanked open the door, the silence was suddenly interrupted by a loud booming sound.

Robinson tore the binocular away and was stunned to found a ball of fire hurled toward them.  He took cover behind the car.   When he stood up again, he couldn’t believe what he saw.

The intensity of the blast shattered the windows of all nearby cars and police cars.  The members of SWAT team were now rolling on the front lawn with fire on their bodies.   A group of policemen rushed out to help.  And when the dust finally settled, everyone could see that the first floor had completely collapsed, rendering all access to the building impossible.

“My deepest condolences, sir.”

Robinson turned to Powell.  The fire lit up the sky with a hue of orange behind him.

“If you would allow, we have a suitable helicopter standing by.”

Robinson’s face was pale.

“With capable pilot.”

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

When Lestrade cautiously pushed the door open to the 30th floor, the room was eerily quiet and devoid of….. hostages.   Lestrade’s heart sank.

“Don’t worry.”

Lestrade pulled out his handgun, pointing to the source of sound.  He found himself aiming at the terrorist who sat leisurely at the grand piano, a glass of liquor poised by his lips.

If Lestrade had to guess, this man must be Hans Gruber.

“I just love cognac. ”  The terrorist brought the glass to his lips.   He tasted the liquid and smiled.  “And I can tell that Mr. Takagi spared no expense.  Must be a Remy Martin.  Delightful.”

“Where.  Are. The. Hostages?”

“Ah, majority of them are on the way to the machine room right now.  If you recall, there is a good cage over there.  My good man, Eddie, is directing them as we speak.”

“Stop lying.  That’s impossible.  I would have seen them on the way here.”  Lestrade looked around, and finally spotted two people tied up to the side of the room.    His mouth went dry.

_Ellis and Holly.   Fuck._

“You don’t realize there is an utility elevator do you?”  Gruber shook his head.  “You gave us quite a few…hiccups.   I intend to pay back your... gifts”   The terrorist smirked, placing the liquor down on the piano.   “It would be improper of me, if I don’t, wouldn’t you say?”  He rose from the piano bench.

Lestrade could tell the two of them were gaged, but with no visible gush of blood on their bodies.  They were tied around a chair.  An uncomfortable amount of C4 was tied around their torsos.   “You bastard.  You fucking bastard.  They aren't even armed!”

“Oh.. don’t worry.  I am sure you have something that I want.  And I just love to trade.” 

Sensing the man was stepping closer, Lestrade placed his finger on the trigger.

“If you shoot me, it will take me a few second to die.  Even if you shoot me in the head, my fingers will curl in reflex.   And you know how dead body would twitch….God forbid, even in my death, I can still activate this detonator.”  

Lestrade hissed, as he watched Hans Gruber waved the little detonator in his one hand casually while his other hand pulled a gun and pointed at his wife to the side.  Reluctantly, he let go of his finger from the trigger, but still keeping the gun trained on the terrorist. 

“Ah.. good choice.”  The terrorist advanced toward him, the gun still threatening the two hostages.

Lestrade restrained himself from backing up.  As much as he felt like a prey exposed under the sun with no shelter, he stood his ground.

“Now, where is our Mr. Holmes.  I know he is not dead.” 

_Not ours.  Mine.  Mine!_

“I would not know.”

“Of course you do.  A little copper like you wouldn’t be able to do…”  Lestrade watched Hans Gruber gestured all around, ”...do all these damages.” 

The terrorist was now standing in an arm’s length.

“Oh.. you would be surprise what a little copper with no fancy weapons could do.”

“I am not playing games, Lestrade.”

Lestrade followed his glance to Holly and Ellis.   “I don’t know where Mycroft is.  If you want revenge.  Come at me.  Not them.”

“YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME!” 

The mad man’s scream shook his core.  Deep inside, Lestrade knew.  He had no bargaining power.   He couldn’t give up Mycroft.  He couldn’t let Holly die. 

Lestrade almost jumped when Hans Gruber suddenly shot to the direction of the hostages without aiming.  Darting his eyes back at the hostages, he was relieved that the shot missed them.  “Fuck you!”  Lestrade snarled.

“Where.  Is.  He?  The next time I promise it will draw blood.”

He closed his eyes.  He was in the middle of impossible choices.

No.  That was not true.  He had another option.

Lestrade exhaled and looked up, his eyes falling on the beautiful chandelier off the ceiling.   He marveled at how the crystal sparkled, projecting light all around.  And then he wondered why he had not noticed and appreciated such a beautiful thing when he first entered the room.

When Lestrade shifted his gaze back to Hans Gruber, by reflex, he caught a cell phone thrown to him by the mad man.

“Call him.  I disabled the jammer.  If you don't want your wife’s brain splattered all over her own office, call him out.”

There really was only one way to go at this.  It would have been nice if he had recognized what Mycroft was to him…. much earlier.

“You will have to call him yourself.”

Lestrade threw the phone to the side.  Without hesitation, he turned the handgun toward him and under his chin.   He almost smiled when he saw Hans scrambled to rush toward him. 

Closing his eyes, Lestrade placed his finger on the cold metal, separating him between life and death.

Lestrade inhaled sharply.

As he was pulling the trigger, the ground suddenly shook , loudly… and then a shot, not his, was fired and quickly followed by a chandelier came crashing down.  “FUCK!”  His gun went off and the bullet grazed him by his cheek, straying into the ceiling.  “FUCK!” Lestrade hissed, deeply felt the burning flesh on his cheek.   He then found himself tumbling backward as a mass collided with him.  He lost the grip to his gun.

Lestrade didn’t care why the ground shook.   LA could be bombarded with earthquake, the sky could have fallen and Lestrade would care less.  All he cared about, at this moment, was to hurt the man now sprawling on him, as badly as he was able to.   The silver-haired policeman brought up his knee to his chest and kicked.   Hard.  Hearing the groan from the offending terrorist, Lestrade immediately rolled, and found himself staring at the detonator laying only a few feet away.   He got to his feet immediately and snatched the device.

Another shot fired behind him, missing him by a hair.  

“Stop!”  The anger from the terrorist was fueling his adrenaline.  “Hand me back the detonator or I will blow your wife’s brain…..”

Lestrade froze. _Shit.  Holly!_ He turned and looked at his assailant.   Rather than the menacing look he was expecting, Lestrade found the man strangely in shock.   Lestrade then quickly panned his eyes toward where the hostages were supposed to be.

And… there were no hostages there.

THERE WERE NO HOSTAGES THERE!

Lestrade grinned.  He dashed off immediately toward the stairwell.

“STOP!”

_Like Hell!_

Hans Gruber fired again and the silver-haired policeman immediately took cover under the desk.  The stairwell was less than 10 yards away.   “Aren’t you afraid I will detonate the bombs if you shot me?  Quit shooting at me!”

But the floor is now lined with broken glasses.  Bloody hell.  Lestrade had no shoes.

“Shut up, Lestrade!”   Lestrade could tell the man was royally pissed.   His usual calculated voice was now reduced to that of a hysterical teenager.   “I have nothing to lose and you have everything to lose!   Hand me the detonator or I will take everyone here with me!”

“You have to get me first!  Bastard!”

Before Hans Gruber could retort, suddenly a shot was fired and the terrorist cowered.   Seizing the moment, Lestrade ran toward the door.  He endured shreds of glasses digging into his feet and then slipped into the familiar darkness of stairwell.

A trail of blood began to form behind Lestrade as he ran upstairs.   Weaponless, Lestrade could only clench onto the detonator protectively.   He didn’t dare to stop to inspect his wounded feet.    Wincing with pain, he rounded the landing and started to head up to the 34th floor before he suddenly found himself sprawling to the ground.   Pain erupted on his head as he felt the world spun before him.  

He fluttered his eyes.  Dazed, he looked up and saw a man in security guard uniform standing over him.  

_Help?_

The surrounding then slowly turned into a shade of white before all lights seemed to dim.  The security guard took out a communicator and spoke in a German accent.  “I got him.  Boss.”

_Shit…_

And the world promptly turned black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can tell you.. this is the most crazy and most difficult chapter for me to write in this story so far. I started 3 different scenarios in the past 2 days... and finally, this was the one that made it all the way through... hope that all the actions make sense. It was getting pretty hard to keep all the POVs, actions, and scenes intact and consistent. Especially as we are tumbling toward the end of the story, I have to be extra careful now to make sure things link together. . I had already written part of the ending when I first start this story.. so it is like trying to get two pieces of cloth stitch together without an obvious seam... *sigh* who knows.. I may have to rewrite my ending inevitably just so things would flow and not come out forced... Anyhow, hope you enjoy this chapter. Looking forward to comments and kudos if you feel I deserve it .. Thanks!


	10. The Hostage

Chapter 10:   The Hostage

In the past 8 years, Mycroft’s team had interceded 27 kidnap and 4 assassination attempts on Gregory Lestrade.  There were five rescue operations unbeknownst to the target himself.  And two of those had Lestrade hospitalized in the aftermath:  one was when he was hit by a ‘random drunk driver’, and the other was when he was thrown off into the Thames by a ‘runaway suspect’.

Mycroft remembered the moment he was notified of the Thames incident (unacceptably 39 minutes after Lestrade had been fished out of the Thames by Sherlock, and definitively not by the tailing agent), he was just on the way to a conference in the south Asia in the middle of a summer. 

Mycroft had managed to turn the mood of that meeting to sub-zero degree, intimidated everyone into agreement, and then walked out of that meeting in under 17 minutes and 36 seconds.   Had Anthea not intervened, he would have flicked his wrist and shipped off the agent to the middle of the desert for the rest of his career.

Now that he was in the position to protect Gregory in the shadow, however, Mycroft could finally grasp what Anthea had been trying to explain to him on those numerous murderous occasions…

His Gregory was the definition of security risk.

Never mind that the detective inspector’s job entailed him to go to unsavory places and to deal with shady people, his temper and unpredictability ensured the impossibility to protect him. 

“Oh.. you would be surprise what a little copper with no fancy weapons could do.”

As much as Mycroft enjoyed soaking in Gregory’s frivolity with a blushed hint of sarcasm, it really was a bit not good to rile up the terrorist who was holding a detonator and a gun. 

“I am not playing games, Lestrade.”

Terrorist with a detonator.  Possibility of shooting, killing, and setting off the chain of C4 was unacceptably high.

 “I don’t know where Mycroft is.  If you want revenge.  Come at me.  Not them.”

And of course his Gregory would not follow the hostage situation handbook to the letter.

_Patience…_

“YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME!” 

_Chopin Nocturne No. 20… Prelude No. 15, raindrop.. Tristesse...._

Mycroft willed himself to endure the pain and the nausea in his gut when he found none of the Chopin pieces was effective to distract him from thinking about the 39 ways that things could go wrong.  So wrong.

“Fuck you!”  

 …. _and the infamous temper of his Gregory…  yielding to no one… not even a terrorist of international caliber…   Oh Gregory…_

“Where. Is. He?  The next time I promise it will draw blood.”

Mycroft had to physically pressed his hand on his legs so that he would not dash out to his Gregory’s side.  The logical part of him knew it would not help the situation if he were to show himself.  He would have zero chance of getting Gregory out of this situation in one piece.

He waited for Hans Gruber’s attention to shift. 

Remove compromise (hostages).  Secure target’s safety (Gregory).  Disable hostile (Hans Gruber). 

_Wait for it…_

“Call him.  I disabled the jammer.  If you don't want your wife’s brain splattered all over her own office, call him out.”

_There._

As the terrorist threw the cell phone toward Gregory, Mycroft could see that the Gruber’s eyes were intently focused on him.   Keeping himself low, the former MI-6 agent made a dash toward the hostages.   He would just need a couple minutes…  Free them.  Draw Gruber’s attention to him... and definitively away from his Inspector.  

Mycroft silently prayed that Gregory would use his charm to buy him more time.

But just as he made it across to the row of desks,  he abruptly stopped in his track when he heard the spite from Gregory. 

“You will have to call him yourself.”

_No!!!_

Twisting back, he watched in horror as Gregory turned his own gun onto himself.

_No!  Gregory!_

Mycroft’s heart pounded.  Not trusting his aim to knock off Gregory’s gun, Mycroft instantly looked up and shoot at the chandelier instead.  The ground suddenly shook as he pulled the trigger.

_Must be LAPD triggering the bomb on the first floor…_

Mycroft did not dwell on the thought but immediately shifted his attention back to Gregory.  For a moment his heart stopped when he realized that Gregory’s gun also went off.

_No spasm.  A smear of blood on his cheek.  Knocked down by Gruber.  Detonator on the ground._

_Good.  Even better than what he envisioned.  Gregory could take the detonator._

Mycroft exhaled, almost smirked when he saw the tackled Gregory now kneed violently into Hans Gruber.  Taking advantage of Hans Gruber’s inattention, the former MI-6 agent pushed on with his original plan and moved quickly toward the hostages.  When he emerged in front of the couple, he immediately retrieved his knife.  Dully noting that Holly’s eyes flashed with fear,  Mycroft had no time, nor the energy to placate her.  Instead, he quickly sliced the bondings and then  placed his finger on his lips to made the motion to be quiet.  Thankfully, she and the man got the idea.  Mycroft pointed them to a nearby office.  He then handed the knife to them so that they could user to free themselves off the C4s strapped around their bodies.  Fresh tear rolled down the woman’s cheek, but Mycroft just wanted to send them on their way quickly.  He nodded at them, made a hand gesture and watched the last of them scrambled, disappearing into the office door.

He took cover under the desk.   He could not risk to reveal himself, not even to his Gregory.  If the silver-haired policeman knew of his presence in the room, he would not leave for safety.   Mycroft laid out his weapons, calculating his next move. 

3 Grenades.  2 C4s.  Extra handgun. 

Mycroft fished out the roll of masking tape from his pocket.

“Stop! Hand me back the detonator or I will blow your wife’s brain…..”

Mycroft’s heart soared when he caught sight of Gregory made his way toward the safety of the stairwell.

“STOP!”

Mycroft quickly moved toward the terrorist, still undiscovered.   He did his best to ignore the gunshot from the terrorist and the heated exchange words.  With the only goal of getting closer to the terrorist so he could disable him, Mycroft stalked closer.  Quiet like a cat.  Deadly like a viper.

Mycroft watched Hans Gruber shot through the windows and glass doors.

_Glass shreds.  Barefoot._

Mycroft mentally prepared.

“I have nothing to lose and you have everything to lose!   Hand me the detonator or I will take everyone here with me!”

_Not if I am still breathing._

“You have to get me first!  Bastard!”

Mycroft averted his eyes, knowing what Gregory must do to cross to the safety of the stairwell.  Rather than dwelling on that thought, Mycroft focused his attention on the terrorist.  The wife was safe and Gregory would make it to safe ground.   It would just be him and the mad terrorist in a short moment.

Mycroft trained his gun at Hans Gruber, who no longer had the detonator, with the intention to kill.   But his position was not optimal.  The terrorist ducked and Mycroft missed.   But from the corner of his eyes, Mycroft smiled in satisfaction as he confirmed that the silver haired policeman had made it out of the room.

 At least Gregory would be safe.

“HOLMES!”

Snapping his attention back to the situation, Mycroft stood up calmly, one hand with gun pointing at his opponent.   What Gruber did not see though, was that Mycroft had a grenade and a handgun taped just below his shoulder blade.   The safety pin of the grenade was still on.

“You should have come out much sooner to join the party, Holmes.”

“There is nothing left for you.”  Mycroft said plainly, not at all bother by Gruber’s gun that was equally trained on him.

For a brief second, the stand offs reminded Mycroft absurdly of the American western cowboy movies he was forced to watch in his uni days.

“Holmes,  you will come with me.”

Mycroft arched his eyebrow.  “You have no more hostages on your hand.  I have a gun and I am more than capable of shooting you from this distance.  And I really have no reservations about where to immobilize you.  You on the other hand...” The Iceman paused, offering a sympathetic smile.  “.. have very limited options.”

Hans Gruber shrugged.  “Like you say, I have very limited options.. but.. “   The terrorist’s eyes sharpened.  “That also mean I have nothing to lose.  You know how a cornered animal would do.”   A predatory smile. 

“Indeed.  But you have little to gain from this.”  Mycroft said flatly.  “I am but a minor official in the British Government.  There will be many that could replace me.   Codes change.  Power shifts.  New secrets form.  You should know all that.  Walk away and perhaps we could delay the inevitable.”

The terrorist laugh came not as a surprise.  “Mr. Holmes.  You underestimate yourself.   My employer is very much invested in you.  Whether it is for your knowledge or something more personal.  I really don’t care.”  The terrorist cranked his neck.  “Either I deliver you or I die.  Very limited options indeed.”

_The resources.  The death threat to Hans Gruber just to get him, limiting the possible identities of the mysterious employer down to 16.  Anthea could work with 16._

“Yes.  Karl did mention you have an employer… before he fell through 36 floors.”

_Pressure point.  Brother in arms.  Snarl.  Regret.  Ah.. Not brother in arms.  More intimate._

“Drop your gun and hands up in the air.  Holmes.  I still have those 30 some hostages with me.  A quick call to Eddie, you will find only body parts.”

_There it is.  Time to execute._

“I have made decisions that decimate more innocent bystanders than that.” 

_Hook._

The terrorist threw his head back.  Laughed and then let the malice spilled over his words.  “Except this time, it would be very public.  Mr. Holmes.  That policeman of yours will know what kind of monster you are.”

_Line._

Mycroft sighed dramatically.   He dropped his gun. 

The terrorist smirked.  “So the rumors were true.  That you kept a secret pet.”

Raising his hands up, Mycroft slowly put his hands behind his head.   His long elegant fingers brushed against the cold metal of the grenade and then the handgun, both still firmly taped on his back, below his shoulder blade and away from Gruber’s eyes.  Close distance.  Gregory safe.  The handgun would do. 

Mycroft wrapped his fingers around the handle of the handgun.

_And sink….._

“I got him. Boss.”

The short transmission from the other terrorist cut through the tension and stopped Mycroft from pulling out his hidden gun.  He closed his eyes, allowing his mind to go blank for a fraction of a second.  He didn’t need to hear the name to know whom the other terrorist was referring to.

“Ah.. and look how the situation has completely reverted.  Mr. Holmes.”

_Operation 237 then.  Decision made.  Execute._

“Listen very closely.”  Rather than the handgun, Mycroft extracted the grenade in a quick fluid motion from his back, pulling the safety pin off the grenade with his thumb.   “You have exactly 7 seconds to think and agree to my terms.”   Clipped, mechanical, and cold.

Mycroft made sure that Hans Gruber had a good look at the live grenade in his open palm. "I can either let this live grenade explode, or, if you agree to what I have to say, I can toss this out of the window." 

Six more seconds.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Gregory.”

Lestrade felt like floating in the midst of darkness when a gentle velvety voice anchored him.  As Lestrade cracked open his eyes, emerging from his unconsciousness, he was greeted by a scene of a nearly half naked Mycroft cradling him in his arms.   Dazed, Lestrade briefly wondered if he were still dreaming.

_But… I could get use to this._

Mycroft’s silky shirt was gone, only his undershirt was remaining, very much like Lestrade himself.    There were dried blood on his arm, other than that, Mycroft looked unharmed.  Lestrade cheekily smiled. 

_Oh.  The freckles do spill over his shoulder and down to his collar bone._

As he wondered how far those freckles would go, Lestrade felt heat on his face.  Suddenly worried that the bloody Holmes would notice, he coughed and asked.  “What did I miss?”  Seeing Mycroft hovered over him with soften eyes, Lestrade was hopeful.  “Was it over already?  I knew you could get us out of this mess.”  The headache from theblow was still lurking, but the silver-haired policeman didn’t care.    Lestrade duly registered that they were on the roof.   The evening air was chilling;  But Mycroft was giving off a very welcome warmth from his body.   Lestrade tried to push himself up in an attempt to get close to him, but winced when pain shoot from the bottom of his feet.  He looked down.  White fabric stained with blood wrapped around his injured feet.

_Ah.. that’s where Mycroft’s shirt went._

“Gregory.  Please don't get up.  You are badly hurt.”

Hearing the unguarded concerns in that velvety voice, Lestrade smiled broadly and unreserved.

And Mycroft had called his name, without reverting back to his title!

Lestrade really could get use to this.  He minded very little that at this moment he may look like a damsel in distress.  Saved.  Very much saved by this shining knight.. no armor but covered in very delicious looking freckles.  “We have to talk.  Mycroft.”   He brought up his hand, reaching for Mycroft’s face.

“Mr. Holmes. Not to intrude, but you have exactly 30 seconds.”

… And that cold voice was like a butcher’s knife, hacking through his bones, severing him into pieces. 

Fingers still in the mid air not reaching Mycroft, Lestrade slowly turned his head.  To his crushing dismay, he saw a very alive Hans Gruber standing by a chopper.  “No.”   Lestrade breathed, noting the detonator in the terrorist’s hand.

_It is not over.  Oh God, what is going on?_

“There is no other way, Gregory.   A trade for 30 is not a bad bargain.”  Lestrade turned his attention back to the man who was still cradling him.  He could see the hesitation looming over him like a dark cloud right before the storm.   Lestrade was alarmed to see that Mycroft was looking for the right words.  “They need me alive.”  When the words finally emerged, they were delivered in a quietness that settled badly in his gut.  Lestrade wanted to scream.   He was slow compared to the Holmes.. but even he could put together what was going on.

Torn by all considerations and obligations, Lestrade frantically trying to think of ways out.  But there were very little he could do on a roof.  With no weapons.  No props.  The words died before even forming at his lips. 

_It was my fault for getting captured and..._

“Gregory.  It was my fault that you are hurt.”

_No. No no no no.  It was my fault!_

The world must have tilted to the wrong axis.   How does one go about righting it?

“Sir!”

Lestrade had no idea when and how Anthea suddenly surged to be right next to him.  But he didn't care.  All he noticed was that Mycroft’s eyes suddenly hardened again at the sound of his PA.   Releasing him gently, Mycroft rose and turned to her.  A non verbal communication occurred right before his eyes and Lestrade felt a flare of unreasonable possessiveness overtook him.  Without realizing it, Lestrade stood up, ignoring the pain and aches from his body.  He reached out and held onto Mycroft. He wanted his eyes on him.  Not Anthea.  Not anyone.  He desperately needed the confirmation.  “You sure?  You are only worth more to them alive right?”   The silver-haired policeman fisted the undershirt.    “They won't hurt you... right?” He was aware how much he was twisting the fabric under his grip.  But he couldn’t let go.  He really couldn’t.

“Yes.  They will not kill me.”  Lestrade watched Mycroft’s dropped his gaze as he responded.   The words didn’t comfort him a bit.  Instinctively, he knew that Mycroft was deflecting. 

Mycroft didn't confirm he wouldn't be hurt. 

“I am coming after you.   God.. I swear, I am coming after you.   Anthea is coming after you.  We all are.   Don’t…”  Lestrade swallowed, he didn’t know what else to say without betraying his thoughts, their loyalty to the Queen and country, and his integrity.  “.. Just don’t push yourself..  Just stay alive… and we will come to get you...”

“Gregory….”  Lestrade saw the man started but then pressed his lips in thin line, forcibly swallowing whatever he had wanted to say.

“You have five Seconds, Mr. Holmes!””

Lestrade did not look at the terrorist.  He would not give him the satisfaction to see how his countdown was breaking him.  “Mycroft, we still have things to sort out between us…. There’s so much I need to tell you.... just sit tight.   We are coming for you.   We all are.”  Lestrade felt his heart was ripping apart.  “I am coming after you.”   He declared loudly.  Not just for Mycroft, but for himself.   It was a promise.  A pledge. 

“I have no doubt.” 

With that, Lestrade watched Mycroft, the man who somehow occupied his whole conscious thoughts, gently but firmly brushed his hand away.   “I have to go.  There is not much time.”   The helicopter blades started to rotate.   Lestrade watched Mycroft’s hair whirled wildly in the artificial wind.   He had a sudden urge to reach out to touch and keep that beautiful hair in place. 

“Sir… If I could...”  Anthea started again.  The look of her eyes full of fear sent a shiver down his spine.

Mycroft held up his right hand, effectively stopping Anthea from saying more. 

Suddenly Lestrade was unsure.

_They would stop at nothing to go after Mycroft right?  Mycroft is irreplaceable.  Mycroft is essential.  Surely they would go after him… right?_

“Goodbye, Gregory.”

Helplessly watching Mycroft turned toward the terrorist, Lestrade clenched his jaws so tight that the roots of his teeth started to hurt.   Far ahead near the helicopter, he saw how Hans Gruber twisted his mouth into a predatory smile and felt sick to his stomach.

Mycroft stood calmly before Hans Gruber.  A few words were exchanged before the terrorist handed Mycroft the detonator.   He then tore out the wire from the box, dropping it to the ground.  At the same time, Hans Gruber grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into the helicopter roughly.

“MYCROFT!”  Lestrade couldn’t hold it in any longer as he saw the last of Mycroft disappeared right in front of him.  The door was quickly shut and then the helicopter hovered off the ground.

“Anthea!  What’s our next move?"  Lestrade immediately turned to Anthea.   “ Is there someone we could call?  We need to go after them before it was too late!”  He needed to know her plan.  Anything to keep him away from thinking the worst that may happen to Mycroft while he was in that disgusting terrorist’s hands.

But the usual impassive face crumbled before his eyes.   Just then, Lestrade finally noticed that the usually tidy woman was holding tightly onto her right arm.   There was an alarming large amount of blood trailing down her limb and pooling at her feet.  “I can’t.”  The unnatural rigidness of her body language unnerved him.  

“What do you mean you can’t?  Couldn’t you just…”.

Lestrade's word were muffled by a rush of sound.   A different but large chopper rose between the buildings, interrupting Lestrade in mid sentence.   Though Lestrade didn’t know too much about helicopters, when he drew his eyes to the chopper, he could recognize that it was a military grade

The large chopper hovered above them briefly, as if to assess situation before it pointed toward the terrorists direction.

“YES!”  Lestrade’s hope rekindled, pointing at the massive machine that was started to give chase to the terrorists.  “There it is!!!  Anethea, tell them!”   Lestrade sholved the communicator to Anteha.  “Mycroft was onboard.   They could kill those bastards and get him back!   Tell them!”

“I can’t!  Don’t you see!!”  Anthea was suddenly in rage.  “Mr. Holmes cannot be captured!   As soon as that happened, I no longer have any control!”  Anthea stopped, tried, but failed to rein in her outburst of temper.   She breathed in once, and then twice.   When she finally came back to herself, her voice was flat.  “That is a Eurocopter Tiger.  It is an offense chopper.”  Anthea held her eyes impassively steady as she stared at the silver-haired policeman.  “It is not a rescue mission.”

“No.... “  The words hit him and Lestrade stumbled back.   “No no.. I promised Mycroft.  We are going after him.  We are getting him back!”  He steadied himself and grabbed onto Anthea’s arms.  “Call them back!  They can’t shoot that helicopter down. Mycroft is in it!”

“I can’t call them. I don’t have authority anymore.  When he issued 237, in the event he was captured, all authority transferred to another chain in command.   Our only hope is...“

And the realization hit him.  “He knew…” 

His name.  How could he miss when he call his name like that.

Lestrade found himself out of breath, not waiting for Anthea to finish her sentence.   His entire body shook with anger.

Mycroft always misled him; Always doing things without consulting him; Always hurting silently; always sacrificing himself without letting it on… 

But he should have caught on.  How could he be so naive? 

_MYCROFT!!!!!_

“You knew!”   Lestrade chased to the edge of the roof top.   “You Fucking selfish bastard!!”    He screamed into the darkness.  “You crazy bloody fucking bastard!”

But his outburst was swallowed by the wind.  Lestrade dropped his knee to the ground, his head buried between his shaking arms.  He gritted his teeth.  “MYCROFT!”

As if to answer, Anthea’s blackberry suddenly rang.

Turning to the source of sound, Lestrade stared stupidly at the phone in Anthea’s hand.  He could see the name ‘Watson’ flashed on the screen.   Before he could ask anything, Anthea immediately answered the phone.

“Dr. Watson.  Please tell me you are on that Tiger chopper.”  Anthea looked up.   Registering that Lestrade was listening, she mercifully pressed the speaker button.

“Bloody hell, Anthea.  Is Mycroft on that helicopter with the terrorists?” 

Lestrade stared, mouth open as John Watson’s irritated voice (but welcoming to his ears) came through the phone speaker.  When he looked up at Anthea, he did not miss the corner of Anthea’s mouth lifted, forming a smile that he had never witnessed in all the years he had known her.

“That’s affirmative.  Captain Watson.”

And Lestrade did not miss when she changed John’s title from Doctor to Captain.  Her voice was all business.

“What is all this talk of shooting it down when he is bloody onboard?”

_John is here…  John is on that chopper..._

“Captain.  You have a choice…”  

Lestrade held his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is increasingly hard to write, so I hope this chapter came out okay, especially on his POV. It is just really hard for me to write the way he should talk. There are still many lines that I feel like I didn't get it right.. maybe after the story is finished, I could fix it up more. Forgive my grammar and spelling mistakes (I am sure there are lots)... as I really want to finish this before I loose momentum.  
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments! I really really humbly appreciate them.


	11. The Stunt

Chapter 11:  The Stunt

Throwing the door open, Sherlock took 2 steps at a time to round up the stairs. He then crossed into his living room at 221B Baker Street in 4 quick but long strides.  Shrugging off his muddy long coat carelessly on the sofa, he carried the bag and put it down on the dining table. 

“Oh.. this is Christmas!”   The dark curly haired detective exclaimed, as he gingerly took out 12 bags of dirt.  It had taken him all night to collect these samples from various points of Thames River bank.

The corner of his mouth lifted as he started to unpack the samples.   Carefully and precisely spooning out the dirt, he looked wildly to see where to put the sample before he could prepare the petri dishes.               

Ah, knowing John, he had surely done the dishes last night.

Having one hand still holding on the spoon of dirt steady, he opened the cabinet.  With a quick glance, he had determined he would have sufficient supply with this batch of tea cups.  He reached in.  His hand was ready to pick out the tea cups from the line up before he paused in midair, suddenly recalling John’s severe displeasure the last time he experimented with the human eyeballs.

Right.

He backed away from the cabinet with one step.  Fishing out his phone from his pocket with the free hand, he texted quickly.

::John.   Come home at once.::

With one hand still holding the spoon, Sherlock tapped on the cover of the phone with his finger impatiently.  5 minutes and 27 seconds had passed.  This was definitively longer than John’s average response time during his work hour. 

Sherlock huffed and proceed to fire out another text message.

::John.  This is time critical.  You need to come home from the clinic at once.  SH::

Another 46 seconds.

::John.  The bacteria is not going to wait for you to divide.  SH::

Another 56 seconds and the unacceptable level had retched up another notch.   John’s average patient-doctor face time was 7 minutes and 16 seconds with standard deviation of 42 seconds.   John would have already been between patients and had ample time to respond.   Sherlock typed quickly with one hand again.

::John.  This unacceptable delay is contaminating my sample.  You need to come home at once.  SH::

A ping from the phone finally brought a smile to Sherlock’s face.   He looked at the screen and then frowned.

::Busy.  Can’t talk.::

Sherlock rolled his eyes.              

::Don’t be dull.  What could be more important than my experiment?  SH::

Sherlock eyed at his samples on the table and then shifted his sight to the spoon in his hand impatiently.  It had been 1 hour and 26 minutes and 35.. no 38 seconds since he collected this particular sample.  He would have to factor in this delay time when entering the result into his notebook.

Another ping brought Sherlock out of plotting growth curve in his head.   The detective quickly turned his attention back to his phone.

::SAVING YOUR BLOODY BROTHER YOU TWAT!::

Sherlock blinked at the screen.

_Well._

He slowly tipped his head to one side for a moment and considered.

He certainly had given John plenty of chances to intervene, hadn’t he?

_All is fair then._

Decision made.  Sherlock pressed his thin lips into a smile.  He first slipped his phone back into his pocket in a fluid motion, and then he happily plucked out 12 pristine white tea cups from the cabinet.   Firing up the Bunsen burner, the detective proceeded to sterilize each tea cup on the open blue flame.

His petri dish supply was low.  He still had the saliva experiment to be planned.   There was no reason not to be environmental.  After all, John had been complaining about the recycling lately.  The tea cups would be more than adequate substitute to grow bacteria.  

As the white ceramic started to glow in an amazing red, Sherlock hummed to the tune of Wagner’s The Ride of the Valkyries, while all the time, still holding that spoon of dirt in his one hand steadily.

-*-*-*-*-*--*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

_Bloody hell._

John furiously typed out ::SAVING YOUR BLOODY BROTHER YOU TWAT!:: in all capital letters before he threw his personal phone to the young MI-6 Agent James.  “Don’t bother me with that phone unless Sherlock blow up the flat or is in the middle of bleeding to death.”

“Yes. Captain.”

John inhaled a deep breath.  Feeling his head cleared, he then turned and got back to the task at hand. 

“How many helicopters can you get?”  Pushing aside the annoyance, John asked Anthea over the secure phone that agent James had provided him.

It was frighteningly easy for him to slip back into this role so seamlessly. 

The familiarity.  The thrill.  The immediacy.

They would have to intercept the helicopter right now.  The young MI-6 agent had explained to him earlier that the mission from top was to destroy the terrorist’s helicopter.   If they lose it, it would take more than 24 hours to track it down.  And by that time, national security would have been all blown open. 

Apparently Mycroft was the national security.  Not that John hadn’t suspected all along.  And obviously, John was not going to obey that order to the letter, now confirming that Mycroft was onboard.  But with only one helicopter,  John had no illusion that they could get Mycroft out of there alive.

“Captain.  I have 3 standing by.”  Anthea responded from the other side of the phone.

“Standing by is not going to cut it.”  John chewed on his bottom lip.  He eyed at the terrorist helicopter ahead of him.  Those standby choppers must still be at a base and would not make it in time.  He needed to execute his plan fast.  The pilot had estimated only few minutes before them catching up. 

“What are those?”   A male’s voice came through the phone, interrupting John’s thought.  The voice had sounded suspiciously familiar.

“Greg?”  Surprised, John almost dropped the phone.  He thought the DI had taken a leave to take care of the… oh… Greg did mention LA didn’t he?

“John.  Long Story.”  Greg’s voice on the side was noticeably clipped.  Worried.  “So what are those helicopters hovering around out there?”

John tilted his head out of the Tiger chopper and looked back.  Indeed, several civilian helicopters were holding in a pattern just outside of the edge of the danger zone perimeter.

“Those are news station’s helicopters.   Words must have gotten out quickly when the explosion happened.”  Anthea’s explanation came through the phone.

“Can’t we use those?”

“I have no jurisdiction over…”  Anthea’s hesitant voice was quickly interrupted by Greg.

“Well.  Those are from the news people right?  Tell them I will get them an exclusive.. IF.. they let us use the helicopters.  Oh, don’t look at me like that, Anthea.   I will just talk about me.   Plenty of juicy story with a cheating wife, terrorists, and bomb threats.   By the time we get that bloody selfish I-will-sacrifice-myself fucking Mycroft back, there will be a movie made.”  A pause and then the sound of a muffled string of cursing was audible.  “Don’t worry, I will leave him out of the story.   We are going to get him back.”

John arched his eyebrow.  He wasn’t sure exactly where Greg’s outburst came from.   He knew of the DI’s temper.  He had heard many of his complaints in colorful words over pints in pub.  But never like this.  “That would work.  Get two choppers asap.”  John shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside.  They had a mission to do.  Time was critical.  No point in dwelling in irrelevancy.  “And Mycroft can pilot a helicopter correct?”  He was fairly sure but wanted to confirm.

“Affirmative, Captain.”

“Right then.  Here is the plan…..” 

John wore many hats when he was in Afghanistan.  It was not unusual for him to take over command when there was no one else to do so.   He knew combat.  He knew these choppers.  He knew assault weapons.   And he was damn good at accomplishing missions. 

This was his playground.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*    

As soon as Anthea clicked the phone off, she rang up Powell and instructed him to set up the choppers.  While she waited for confirmation from Powell, she watched DI Lestrade, who, a few minutes ago was just a sobbing bloody mess, suddenly transformed into a restless man focused with only one goal.

“We can do this.  We are getting Mycroft back.”

She heard the chanting from the DI as he paced around the rooftop.  

“Anthea.  Samantha Nelson has two choppers and agreed to the terms.   I will pilot one and have a LAPD from here to come with me to man the machine guns.   Are you piloting the other?  We can’t openly risk civilian’s lives.” 

Anthea smiled as she heard the good news from Powell.  “Yes.  I will pilot it.  Have it land directly here on the roof.”

“Take me.”

Anthea eyed impassively at DI Lestrade.

“Take me.  You need someone on the guns.  And we are just shooting to redirect.  I can do that.”

“No.”  This involved Mycroft’s life, and Anthea would only take the best.   As much as she sympathized with DI Lestrade, the man needed to be in the hospital, and not on a mission.  “This is critical, I can’t.”

DI Lestrade’s temper suddenly flared.  “Christ, Anthea.  You are hurt too.   I see how you hold you arm.  What the bloody hell happened to you?  How did you get here?”

“Classified.”

“Yeah, CLASSIFIED.”  DI Lestrade threw up his hands.   His chest raised and fall with heavy breathes, as he paced away from Anthea, obviously trying to put a space between them.   From a distance, he threw his head back while his hands rested on both sides of his hip.   A deep breath and then the silver haired DI circled back to Anthea in quick strides.  Though his eyes were casted down. 

“Anthea.  Look.  I need to be there.”  With his eyes still averted, the silver-haired man ran his fingers through his silver hair.   A sign of nervousness.  “I can’t.. Christ, I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”  When he looked up, Anthea could see the desperation in his expressive brown eyes.

_No wonder boss is so besotted with him._

“Anthea.  You should take him.”  Powell’s voice was steady over the phone.  “If anything, at least our boss may fight a bit harder when seeing him.”

Anthea looked away and in time to see the chopper descending.   Damn Powell.  “Fine.  I don’t have time to argue with both of you.   Powell, your neck is on the line.  You let the sentiment get to you, get to us, and if Myc… if this mission failed, I am holding you responsible.”

“Copy.”

Anthea stalked toward the landed chopper.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

John knew that the Tiger was a bloody fast helicopter.  As the pilot had promised, it caught up with the terrorist.  A quick tumble in the air , their chopper was now right in front of it, blocking its intended heading.

John had his pilot turned around the chopper. 

The two choppers faced each other, hovering in the air in stalemate briefly.   John could see two terrorists occupying the front pilot and co-pilot seat.   The reinstated soldier squinted his eyes, and somehow made out the silhouette of Mycroft Holmes sitting behind the pilots. 

Good.  They were in sitting positions that fit nicely in his plan.

He instructed the young MI-6 to operate the assault weapon on their helicopter, firing at the terrorist’s chopper, but purposely missing it.

_It would have been less risky if the bullets were blanks…_

He pushed the thoughts aside.  They needed to stall the helicopter, forcing it back as much as possible.

The terrorist returned fire, but without turning their direction.  Rather, it ducked to the side slightly, trying to breach the perimeter without changing its course.

_Stubborn._

John hoisted his M24 sniper rifle and let it rest against his shoulder.  He peered into the eyepiece.  He needed a warning shot.   And the landing skids seemed to be a good spot.   Hard to hit.  But it was the least critical structure.   The passengers would hear it.  Would feel it.  And it would be a perfectly good practice target for him at the same time.

The enemy helicopter was now moving up and down and then left and right, small movements yet too erratic for John to make the shot.

John concentrated.  “James, shot to the left.”   He ordered his young MI-6.  When the fire was shot, John tried to anticipate the helicopter’s moment to the right and then fired.

Missed.

_Damn wind._

John Spat.

_Damn timing._

He rolled back his shoulder, tilting his head left and right before he looked through the eyepiece of the rifle again.  Focusing on the left landing skids of the terrorist’s chopper once more, he made small adjustment on his shoulder to correct for the wind.   Anticipating the movement, he barked out another order.  “Left!”

James fired and this time, John knew the other chopper’s reaction time.  John pressed the trigger, and smiled in satisfaction as he saw a spark bouncing off the intended landing skid.  He had hit the mark like a charm.

In response, the opponent chopper suddenly drifted up.  It changed its direction to the right.

_There you go._

With confidence, he repeated the strategy, and successfully stalled the chopper until he finally heard James yelled out.  “They are here!”

“Crowd it!”  John wasted no time and barked into the secure channel for their three choppers.  “Chopper 1, take 4 o’clock position.  Chopper 2, take 8 o’clock position.”

As the three helicopters slowly tightened the circle,  the terrorist chopper’s movement become constricted until it could do much but hovered.  Once a while it would try to move up, but the three helicopters would mirror it and push it back to place.  The enemy chopper’s direction erratically shifting again, unsure which way to go.

Taking advantage of the hesitation, John ordered.  “Fall back slightly, chopper 1!”  

As John predicted, the terrorist took the bait and turned toward right, trying to breach through the small space that chopper 1 purposely created.

“Chopper 1, fire to its left!”

_This is it._

John looked into his own eyepiece.   He focused on the cross hair.

When a chopper was turning in tight space like this, it typically would maintain vertical position.  And that meant he had a fraction of second of opportunity to make fatal shots to both the pilot and co-pilot.

Can’t be the head.   Too risky for the hostage in the back seat.  Chest would do.  Two shots each, just to make sure. 

The soldier plotted internally as the front of the terrorist’s chopper slowly started to change direction.   John forced to breath evenly, watching through the eyepiece while the chopper pivoted.   He saw his targets slowly came into view and locked in with the crosshair in his eyepiece.

One of the terrorist was leaning out, a machine gun in hand.

John could not move. Could not dodge even if the firing were to come straight at him.  He was in position.  He kept his eyes firmly on the target.

John steadied his whole body.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the young MI-6 Agent suddenly leaned toward him. 

John knew that the agent was attempting to cover him, but John could not spare any more attention to him, so instead, he settled like a rock.  He needed to do this.  He had only one goal in mind.

He would not fail this mission.

He willed the noises of machine gun and the movement around him to fade into the background.   It was like a black curtain that blanked it him.. only leaving the target in the focus.

He inhaled sharply.   Holding the breath, he pulled the trigger.

Crimson red blossomed.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Lestrade saw Powell’s Chopper 1 backed away as John had ordered, while Anthea kept their chopper position in place, preventing the terrorist from fleeing to their direction.  They were doing what John had predicted;  Holding the terrorist chopper in place and forcing it to pivot toward John’s chopper so that he could get a clean shot at the terrorists.

After a round of fake shootings at the terrorist’s chopper, Lestrade’s heart soared when he saw it started to turned toward John.  He watched in fascination as John’s whole posture stilled like a rock.   But  a sudden burst of machine gun quickly filled the air from the opponent. 

Surprised, Lestrade panned his sight to the terrorist chopper and shocked to see that terrorist who dressed like a security guard had poked his head out with a machine gun, wildly shooting at John’s chopper.

_No!!!_

But John remained still at his position.  His eyes stayed on the eyepiece and the rifle rested against his shoulder.  Lestrade felt his heart was going to leap out, as sparks bounced all around John’s chopper.   He couldn’t breath.

_Christ!  He need to cover John!_

Lestrade hastily aimed his gun at the wild shooter when his instinct kicked in, but his brain screamed at him to stop.  His finger froze as he recalled the strong possibility that he may end up shooting the helicopter down by accident.  Helplessly, Lestrade watched a young agent on John’s chopper suddenly pushed forward to shield John.   And then the body of the young agent was knocked back in an instant, as if by an invisible force.

_Fuck!_

But before Lestrade could react, four distinct firing came from John’s rifle.   Lestrade quickly shifted his attention back to the enemy chopper and immediately noticed 4 neat bullet holes appeared on the enemy’s chopper windshield.   Beyond the bullet holes, he watched the blood spread on the terrorists chest.   And then to his horror, he saw Mycroft jerked backward.

_No no!_

For a fraction of second, he worried that Mycroft had been shot as well.  But when Mycroft stood up steadily, Lestrade breathed out more easily.

_Just a reflex then…_

Lestrade reassured himself.

_Not a shot.  Mycroft was not shot._

He watched Mycroft reached over the dead pilot.   But when Mycroft did not come fully forward to the control panel, Lestrade frowned.  The former MI-6 was now leaning over the dead pilot.  His one hand stayed behind him awkwardly while his other hand reached over the pilot seat and held onto the cyclic stick.   The chopper hovered.

“Anthea.  Something is wrong.  Mycroft is not….”   Before he even finished asking the question, realization suddenly dawned on him.   A cold shiver ran down his spine.  “Christ… he is handcuffed to the seat...”   Lestrade gripped onto Anthea’s good arm tightly.  “Christ.. Mycroft can’t pilot the helicopter like that!  He is handcuffed to the seat!”

“He must be using the dead body weight to keep the pedals and the collective lever in check.”  Anthea muttered.   “We don’t have much time.  The wind is going to pick up.   The chopper is not going to maintain stability much longer.” 

Lestrade looked to Mycroft wildly.   This couldn’t be happening.   The silver-haired policeman felt bile rising up his throat.

“This is Chopper 2.  Tiger come in.  Tiger come in.“  Anthea radioed John’s chopper, her voice unusually flat.  “Target is handcuffed to the seat.   He can probably maintain control of the chopper for.. maybe 5 minutes.  10 minutes top.  Come in Tiger.  Over.”

“This is Tiger.  Agent James is down.  Captain Watson is assisting.  Over.”

“Shit.”

Heart pounding, Lestrade immediately pivoted to the back of the helicopter.  He wildly dug through the supplies in the back before he fished out a rescue line and cargo hooks.   “Get above him!”  He barked at Anthea. 

“What are you…”

“Get above him!”  He wildly gestured at Mycroft’s helicopter.   Dragging the rescue line toward the chopper’s door, he pushed the door open and poked his head out of the helicopter.   he made one loop in the middle of the rescue line and secured it with a knot.   And he did the second knot quickly for good measures.  After hooking one end of the rescue line onto their landing skid, he then threw the rescue line over board .   The rescue line extended downward from the helicopter.

When Lestrade looked up, he could see Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on him.  The hostage was shaking his head, his eyes pleading.

_Fuck you.  Mycroft._

Lestrade clenched his teeth.

_You are not the only one who does crazy stunts.  If you risk your life like that, so am I!_

Understanding what Lestrade was going to do, Anthea said nothing but gently raised the collective control.  The helicopter responded accordingly, slowly climbing upwards while staying as close to Mycroft’s chopper as possible.

Lowering himself off the helicopter, Lestrade climbed down the rescue line until his right foot stepped into the loop he made earlier.   He winced as he put his full weight on his foot. 

When Lestrade was just below Mycroft’s chopper’s landing skids, the chopper hovered and then started to swing back and forth above.   Like a pendulum, Lestrade started to swing with the entire rescue line in a rhythm.   The arc of the swing grew slowly.  He pointedly did not look down.

“This is a bad idea…. Christ.. this is a bad idea.  How can the same thing happen to the same guy twice...”    Lestrade closed his eyes, and shuddered at the memory of jumping in the elevator shaft.  The tips of his fingers grew cold.

_No time to panic.  Fuck!  Not the time to panic.  Mycroft needs him._

When he opened his eyes.  He made himself ready.

He timed the rhythm of the swing while his eyes focused on the metal bar of Mycroft’s helicopter landing skid.  He reached out.  The arc of the swing was getting larger but it still would not allow him to grab onto the metal. 

There was no time.  Lestrade did not know how much longer Mycroft could maintain control of the chopper.

Only one option left now.

He and the rescue line swung away from Mycroft’s chopper to the maximum angle, stopped, suspended in the mid air, and then the swing motion reverted, starting to push him toward Mycroft’s chopper again.   Lestrade pressed his lips, anticipating as the line slowly approached the maximum angle.   When the swing stopped momentarily and he was suspended in the air at the highest point of the arc, he pushed his full weight onto the knot.   His knees bent slightly.

Letting go of the rescue line, Lestrade leapt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... if I am writing John Watson, I certainly cannot leave out Sherlock Holmes, can I? Hopefully that little bit reflected his personality..  
> The helicopter section was totally made up. . I am sure I have defied physics and logic all over.. but... what action film didn't? Hope it didn't get in the way too much of the story line. One more chapter left. I am so excited. I have started and there are just so many ways I could end this.. happily :)  
> Thank you again for all the kudos and bookmarks... It has been great hear from some of you via comments. I really appreciate you taking the time.  
> Cheers.


	12. The Adrenaline

Chapter 12: The Adrenaline

By the time Powell turned his helicopter around and pointed  back to the terrorists, everything happened all at once.

The good news was that Captain Watson had successfully eliminated the terrorists, judging by the blood splatter on the windshield on the chopper.  But the bad news came in the form of the radio call from Anthea’s.

“This is Chopper 2.  Tiger come in.  Tiger come in.  Target is handcuffed to the seat.   He can probably maintain control of the chopper for… 5.. no… 8 minutes.  Come in Tiger.  Over.”

“This is Tiger.  Agent James is down.  Captain Watson is assisting.  Over.”

_Jesus Christ.   Would this night ever end?_

Just as Powell was pondering the next steps, he saw a line lowered from Anthea’s chopper and then his jaw dropped when he saw DI Lestrade started to climb down the line.

“Fuck!   That is pure suicidal!”  The LAPD next to him noticed too and exclaimed. 

Powell said nothing but kept his eyes on the situation unfolding before him.  He did not dare to get too close, fearing that he might create a wind current and tip Mycroft’s control of his chopper.

He briefly considered whether he should lowered his chopper underneath Mycroft’s so he could catch the DI if he loose his grip.  But the thought was quickly discarded as it would be impossible for him to catch him.  His rotor would have shredded the man into pieces first.

As the line started to swing, Powell could do nothing but watched.

_-*-*-*-*-*-*_

_I am going to kill her._

The handcuff dug into his right wrist as Mycroft Holmes strained to take control of the helicopter.   He was able to reach the cyclic stick, allowing him to control lateral movements of the chopper, thus hovering in mid air. 

If he strained really hard, he might also reach the collective lever on the side of the chair, which wwould allow him to ascend or descend.   But he had not dare to;  with one hand, he wouldn’t be able to take control of both.  As luck may have it, when Dr. Watson shot the terrorists, the dead body happened to be in a good position to keep the collective lever in check.  The chopper still maintained good vertical control… That is... IF... nothing perturbed it.

Mycroft estimated no more than 10 minutes before the wind picked up enough.

He had briefly considered to risk landing the chopper by himself, alternating between the two controls.   The probability of success would be dismal but at least he would die trying.   If anything, he would at least get the chopper out of the metro area.

But with Gregory staring at him across from the other chopper with those panic eyes, Mycroft couldn’t do it.  And that’s why he really really wanted to kill Anthea at this moment.  He had clearly told her to extract Lestrade.  Yet here was Gregory, about to witness his imminent death.

Mycroft tugged at the handcuff again, feeling his already raw skin further punished by the cold metal.

Pick up the gun?  On floor. Too far.   Wind picking up, need to stay on the joystick.  Land on building of approximate height?  Not likely...

Suddenly he caught Gregory throwing the rope down the helicopter.

His heart stopped when he saw the policeman started to climb down the line.

_Oh Gregory..._

Anthea pulled her helicopter higher and Mycroft cursed.

_I am going to kill her._

-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hang in there, mate.”   John pressed his one hand onto the young agent’s left chest.  His other hand frantically feeling for the medical supplies littered on the chopper floor.

Judging by the entry, the bullet most likely had punctured his left lung.  He needed to be in the hospital.  NOW.

“GET US DOWN!”   John ordered the pilot.

“Mr. Holmes cannot land the helicopter.”

Still with one hand pressing hard on the wound, John pulled apart a roll of bandage with his teeth.   He spat out threads of fabric while he quickly wrapped it around the man’s torso with a practiced quick speed.   The words from the pilot didn’t fully sink in until he reached for the syringe.

John froze.   He turned his head, sparing a quick look outside of his chopper.

His pilot had obeyed his order and descending quickly to the west.  But even at a distance, he could see Mycroft’s chopper still hovering in air at the spot where he had left it.

“Jesus Christ…”

John’s mouth hang open as he also spotted Anthea’s chopper.   A silhouette of a man could be spotted on a rope extending from the helicopter.

_That cannot be Greg..._

Just as john tried to make out the man’s identity, John’s pilot steered their chopper to the right, cutting off John’s visual of Greg.  And at that moment, the patient under him started to convulse. 

_He is going into shock._

The doctor in him kicked in and immediately his focus zeroed in on stabilizing the patient.  His hands held down the shaking body as thoughts of Greg and Mycroft were forcibly pushed back.

This was all he could do right now.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Mycroft bit his bottom lips when he saw the line started to swing.   Curse his Gregory.  He was resourceful yet with a heavy dose of recklessness.  It was an unfortunate combination.

Unfortunate for the Iceman’s heart.

As he plotted ways to lock up his Gregory and throw away the key for the future, Mycroft could only stared at Gregory’s rope.   Gregory had climbed down far enough that he was also out of his sight. And Anthea had already pulled the chopper above him so he could no longer stare coldly at Anthea, hoping to get her to abandon the crazy idea.  

When the rope started to swing, Mycroft felt as if his mind palace had been hit by a tornado.  His coherent thoughts were blown apart and his sanity was holding onto a thin thread.

Much like what Gregory was like, tethering to the chopper… Any loose grip would…

Mycroft forced the thought down.   He couldn’t see Gregory but he would take the reassurance of Gregory’s status by the  tension of the rope.

And the arc of the swing  was increasing but…

_The line was not long enough._

Mycroft calculated mentally and the realization came as a shiver traversing down his spine.

_Oh, God, Gregory is going to jump._

How was he going to maintain stability of the chopper when Gregory grab onto the landing skid?

Mycroft frantically watched the motion of the swing.  The rope slightly veered to the left.   Left landing skid then.  The rhythm of the swing had been steady, He could not see his Gregory but he could guess when Gregory would jump.  

Mycroft gripped the cyclic stick tightly.  His eyes intently followed the swing. 

_Just like a metronome._

Mycroft tried to resist the panic tide wave that was threatening to overtake his whole body.

_Just like a  metronome.  It’s all about timing and rhythm._

The line swing in and then swing out again.   There was still tension on the rope.  The line paused, reaching its maximum angle before it swing toward Mycroft again.

_Here it goes.._

Mycroft inhaled.

And then the chopper suddenly veered sharply to the left and dropped downward.

But the former MI-6 agent was more than prepared.  His anticipation paid off and he immediately countered it by pushing the cyclic stick to the right. The move was not perfect as the chopper was like a stone skipping off the water surface.  Planting his feet firmly, Mycroft leaned heavily into the back of the pilot chair to keep himself anchored.

_At least the chopper didn’t tumble._

Mycroft made small adjustment to the left but the chopper was slowly to respond.  They must have caught a wind current, and the machine fought him.

“Hold on.. Gregory..  Hold on…..”

Unable to see his Gregory and with no more rope tension to monitor, Mycroft had to trust that he was still hanging onto the landing skid.

He had to.

Another tiny adjustment to the right…

The chopper over responded this time and suddenly went to the right and slanting downwards.

Mycroft cursed under breath.

_Plan B.  Nothing to lose at this point.  Just a quick pull to set their vertical movement._

Not that Mycroft had any choice.  He knew they needed it.   If he left it be, they would sooner hit a building at their current trajectory.

_Gregory.  Hold on._

Mycroft let go of the cyclic stick and immediately stretched to reach for the collective lever on the side of the seat.

-*-*-*-

It was one thing to know physics, it was another when watching it unfolding before his eyes.

The line was not long enough. Powell recognized instantly.  The DI would not be able to reach it.   But the man continued to surprise him as he didn’t quit.   Lesser man would have.  Rather, Powell felt like his own heart had also jumped when he saw the brave man leapt off his rope.

“Oh God!!”  The man next to him gasped.

For that terrifying moment, the DI’s limps waved wildly in the air, few thousand feet above ground, before the man somehow latched onto the landing skid.

Both Powell and the LAPD inhaled sharply as the chopper immediately tipped to the side due to the added weight.  It veered to the left sharply.

“Jesus Christ!”

Powell pushed his stick control and quickly followed.  He was not sure what he could do for them, but he just couldn't leave them be either.

Still slanting downwards, Mycroft’s chopper continued to tip right and then left repeatedly, as Mycroft was obviously fighting the machine to stabilize.  All the while the DI held onto the landing skid with both arms.  His head tucked in.  The promising thing Powell could see was that one of his leg went up to his chest pressing against the metal.  At least he was not dangling from the chopper completely.

A sudden downward drift of the chopper choked Powell.  He could barely breath when one of DI’s arm lost its grip to the metal bar.  He almost wanted to cover his eyes, just so he wouldn't see the man fall off the chopper.   But amazingly, the DI was able to curl his arm around the metal bar again, pulling himself up and stubbornly hooking on the bar with both arms securely.

Slowly, as the chopper came to a somewhat stabilized position, the DI looked up.  He pulled his upper body against the metal bar.  Swinging his body forward slightly, he was able to get both of his knees on the landing skid metal.   With one hand he reached up, gripping onto the handle on the door frame. 

Thank goodness that the terrorist who was shooting at them earlier had left the door open.

Leveraging the bar, Powell watched the DI finally pulled himself up in a standing position.  the silver haired rolled himself into the chopper cockpit.

Powell resisted the urge to slam his hand onto the control panel.  The scream of joy lodged in his throat.  It came close to come out.

“Hell yeah!”  But the LAPD next to him had no such reservations.  “That man is fucking crazy!”

_Crazy and in love._

Although the words never left Powell’s lips, he instantly wondered since when did he become so sentimental.  He has been in the service for almost 10 years and he had thought it had all but eradicated all of his emotions.

“I don't care what it is.   That is some fucking teamwork there!”

Powell watched the DI moved into the cockpit and took control of the chopper.   At that split second, Powell was worried the two men would go at each other’s throat for doing something so… reckless. 

But apparently they both had more sense than that.  

Perhaps not risking hitting anything, the DI did not use the gun to free Mycroft.  Rather, the DI carefully pushed away the dead body and moved into the pilot seat.   Mycroft stood behind, giving him direction on how to fly the machine.

The machine smoothed into a steady glide as it headed toward their landing site.

Powell smiled, this time, the words slipping out of his mouth without him realizing.   “Yes…  That takes trust.”   And dedication, and much more.

-*-*-*-*-*-*

Anthea was only a few few minutes behind Mycroft’s chopper.  But to leave room for the emergency vehicles, she wisely landed a bit further down the airstrip.    As soon as she landed, she pushed her chopper’s door open and rushed toward the landed chopper.  She then yanked open the door and was greeted by a scene she never thought she would see.

Her boss, who was still handcuffed to the seat, had crowded the DI, pinning him against the back wall.  His knee drew up, wedging between the DI’s thighs.  Mycroft’s free hand fisted at the DI’s silver hair.

And the intention was more than reciprocated, as the DI’s arms wrapped around Mycroft protectively.   His head was tilted back, knocking against the wall while her boss loomed over him.

She stood there, frozen like a deer in the headlight. 

She could clearly see their lips locking together and Anthea felt her ears suddenly burned with heat.

A moan escaped, pulling Anthea out of her trance.  Immediately shutting the helicopter door, she backed out of the helicopter cockpit.  She put a good distance between herself and the helicopter.

She forced her mind to go blank.  It would not do her heart a good service if she recalled what she saw.

“They ok?”

Anthea turned toward the sound, speechless as Dr Watson briskly walking toward her.  However, the question was clearly rhetorical as the doctor only glanced at her curiously but kept on walking toward Mycroft’s chopper.

Anthea blinked and watched the doctor opened the door.   And as expected, the doctor rooted in the spot, mouth opened.   He then quickly closed the door, did an about turn, and rejoined Anthea by her side.

“That…  Jesus…..”  Dr Watson was bright red.   “They….”  He opened his mouth and closed. He repeated a few times, clearly losing the ability to communicate.  Finally, he managed to squeeze out a complete sentence.  “When did THEY happen??” 

“Just now.”  Amusement tamped down her own embarrassment (not that the Doctor knew anyway), Anthea schooled herself back to normal. 

“Right.  That was… Um…  Right.”  John looked away.  The two settled into an awkward silence for a moment before a ping notification came from Watson’s phone.

He sighed loudly but dutifully pulled out his phone.

“Sherlock?”

“Who else?”  John scanned through the messages. “Bloody bastard broke all my tea cup and had the gall to accuse me that those tea cups were not real ceramics.”  Despite the complaint, Anthea could hear the fondness in the undertone.

_Another besotted victim._

How one could put up with Sherlock Holmes’ perpetual childishly selfish behavior, was anyone’s guess.  Though… it was not her place to judge. 

_John Watson is a saint.  He certainly fit for the medical field, with the patience and nerve of steel under stress._

That reminded her.  “How was agent James?”

“He should be fine.  He is in the good hands now.”

“You saved his life.”  And Mycroft’s too.

John shrugged.  “I assume Mycroft is the one who reinstated my title?”

Anthea smiled cryptically, never reaching her eyes.   She could feel the Doctor studying her.

John was perceptive.  “Right.  YOU are the one who reinstated my title.  Mycroft never got a chance, did he?”

“He treated his body like a transport, just like Sherlock.”  Normally, Anthea was the last one to divulge any information.    But today, she felt generous.  The sentiment was getting to her.  Or, perhaps she really just wanted to vent, after today’s long evening.  “I can’t count how many times he was willing to sacrifice himself.  I had to put someone…”  Someone who cared…  “someone in another chain of command before everything falls apart.”

John stared at her. 

“Wouldn't you want to come back to this?”  Anthea tested.  It was clear that Watson’s psychosomatic injuries were all but gone.   Sherlock did know what he was doing after all.  “Mycroft could make this permanent.”  And she could certainly use some help.  The older Holmes was really no better than the younger one.

“While babysitting this twat??”  John pointedly showed her the instant messaging log with Sherlock.  “I will be glad he doesn't burn down the flat when I am away!”

_Drat._

A loud commotion behind them effectively terminated their conversation.  They both looked back.

The Fire truck and emergency personnel were now flooding into the landing zone.  Couple of nicely dressed people were also littering about.  

“Shall we give them a warning?”  He gestured at the incoming innocent bystanders.   He specifically tipped his head toward one of the cameraman.

Anthea looked at them with a practiced disinterest.  Looks like the news people have arrived too, aiming to collect the debt from the DI.  “The shitty stunts that they put us through tonight...”

“Greg and Mycroft?”

Anthea smiled.  “Let them.  It’s payback.  Mycroft still has handcuff on him.  They can't possibly do anything too incriminating.”  Anthea beckoned at the emergency personnel, permitting them to pass through.   She then spoke into her earpiece.  “Powell, take care of the news people.”  She smiled as she heard the confirmation from her partner.

By the time Anthea returned her attention back to Dr. Watson, he was sporting a smile on his face too, much mirroring his co-conspirator.  “You are underestimating Greg, you know.”

She looked at him pointedly. 

“Then all the better.”

-*-*-*-*-*

“Was that John?”  Lestrade tried to twist his head toward the sound of a slammed door.  But Mycroft’s sweet assault did not relent.  If any, he was pulling on his hair almost harder.

But the silver haired man didn't mind.  How could he?  When the lips of the most powerful man in the British Government was mapping him inch by inch.  It was until another dozen of kisses later, just when Lestrade wasn't sure if Mycroft was even capable of hearing him, Lestrade finally got words delivered in a rather breathless voice.

“Yes.  That was Dr. Watson.” 

Lestrade shivered as Mycroft tilted his head and started to kiss down the side of his throat, leaving a trail of heat and wetness. 

“Christ!”  Lestrade felt Mycroft paused at his collarbone, his lips hovering. His warm breath bristled his hot skin, making his hair stood.

“And Anthea 4 minutes prior.”  Came the considered after thought.  Followed by a lick on the collarbone.

“What!!  Oh ..” Lestrade was effectively shut up as Mycroft surged up from his neck to his face again, locking his lips on him.

Lestrade kissed back.

He had almost lost him. 

The thought barged into his mind suddenly, and Lestrade angled his head and deepened the kiss, seeking reassurance.

Lestrade remembered that when he finally entered the helicopter, he had been fueled with adrenaline.  He was ready to scream and almost expected a equally frantic Mycroft waiting for him.  But what greeted him was a collected, if not visibly restrained, Mycroft.  One he knew well, for the past 8 years.

He couldn’t bloody start to yell at Mycroft for deceiving him, could he?

He remembered himself robotically moved over to the pilot seat, knowing that Mycroft would help them land the bloody chopper.  And it was surreal the way Mycroft stepped him through how to land the chopper.  Pulled this.  Pushed that button.  Tilted that stick control.   It was if they were just sitting in the living room.  And Mycroft was just reading off instructions from a book. 

35 Minutes.  That was how long they were in the air.   With the exception of calling out and confirming instructions, neither of them commented anything else.  

Muscle tensed.  The bottom of his feet  was throbbing in pain.  But none of it bothered him as much as the prickly feeling on his back.  It was something unidentifiable. 

The air was stagnant, stiflingly still.  Tension could be felt and ready to be cut.  It sustained like that for bloody 35 minutes.  They were like springs compressed to the absolutely minimal width.  Any small release of pressure would have sent them flying.

And as soon as they landed…  oh boy...  As soon as the chopper touched the ground, everything seemed to happen at once.

Lestrade was ready to punch out that impassive face, for the shit and worry he put him through.  But instead, Mycroft beat him to it.

Lestrade felt being yanked up from the seat and thrown back against the wall in a blink of eye.  There was a predatory hunger that he could glimpse in Mycroft’s eyes before Mycroft crowded into his space.

The former MI-6 agent then knocked his forehead against him, fist pushed into the wall space that was right next to his head.   Lestrade could feel the hot air came out of the other man. “Don’t ever do that again.  Gregory.”  A whispered warning that came out almost as a low growl. 

“Which part?” Game on, you prick.  “Jumping off the elevator shaft?  pointing gun to myself?  Pissing off a terrorist?  Swinging from the helicopter?”. Taking a breath, Lestrade paused.  “You will have to be specific.  Mycroft.”  The silver haired policeman taunted.  “Or should I direct that right back at you.  Mr. let-me-sacrifice-myself-so-you-can-live?”

Mycroft bared his teeth.

And it was sight that made Lestrade’s blood boil.  He wonder what it would be like if Mycroft were to bite him like a vampire.

“Don’t try me, Gregory.”  Mycroft growled loudly this time.

“You…”  It was as if his whole body was on fire.  “You don't get to lecture me when you are off to…”  Lestrade choked.  He could not even afford that mental image right now.

Oh God, he almost lost him. 

Lestrade could see red.  “How could you!  How could you!  When you bloody know that I care for you… “  The desire to punch Mycroft returned like a tsunami. “Do you know what that would do to me!??  Knowing that we didn't even get a chance…   that I cannot have you.  You could have told me.  We could have think of something…  Christ, I almost lost you!”

Lestrade paused, trying to catch breath.

“You…”

Lestrade looked up and met the shock stare.

“You..want me?”

Oh God.  He should just punch him right now.  “Yes!  I want you!”  He fisted his shirt, just to restrain himself from doing severe damage to the handsome idiot before him.  “I had been fantasizing what it is like to lick off those freckles of yours.  I have to mentally, physically restrain myself from thinking about..”  You…..

Lestrade suddenly felt his knee gave out.  If it were not the hands gripping on his shirt, he would have slipped to the ground. 

Oh _Christ….  He… cares…  and loves him._    

The realization hit him.

How long has it been, when his thought was filled with Mycroft and chuckled at the time they spent together?  He didn’t know.  Christ.  When he went home, all he talked of was the Holmes brothers.  

What did he look like when he talked about Mycroft? 

The umbrella. The black car that always seemed to sneak on people.  The cameras following him.  His ridiculous strategy to intimidate anyone coming close to Sherlock.

And then the way Mycroft looked so vulnerable when Sherlock did stupid things…  that look gripped lestrade’s heart, making him want to take his side, to pull the exhausted (overly protective) man in and to comfort him.

No wonder his marriage was falling apart.  It was not Holly’s fault.  Not entirely.   Even if he was faithful to her, his mind had wandered.  And all these time, he had thought it was work that separates him and Holly.  The bloody Holmes had somehow sneaked in and overtook his life.  Sherlock like a adopted son and Mycroft...

“... like a partner…..”  Lestrade breathed out the words.

Lestrade caught Mycroft’s penetrating eyes.  They were looking at Lestrade with calculating precision. Instead of feeling intimidated, Lestrade felt warmth spreading through him like rapid fire.

Eyes on me. On me only….

Without even realizing it, Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft and pushed himself up.  He crushed his lips on the man.  The silver haired policeman could feel the man tensed briefly before he kissed back, tentatively.

Oh.. that would not do.

Lestrade pressed in harder.

Suddenly, he felt his head was pulled back by Mycroft.  Lestrade stared back at his love and smiled. 

The shock was gone and that hungry look was back again on that usual impassive face of the British Government.  He was using facial muscles that Lestrade had never witness before.

Lestrade licked his lips. 

And Mycroft  immediately descended on him, crushing his lips against him into a sweet battle.  He fisted his hand on his hair possessively, twisting him so that he could get better access to him.

Lestrade moaned, feeling the body pressed against him.  It was warm, solid, and something he would never let go.  He wanted to shout to the world of his revelation.  That Mycroft was his. 

And apparently, both Anthea and John just had first hand experience of witnessing their declaration.

_Oh boy..._

Had Lestrade been younger, he would have dug a hole himself and never came out.

The tips of his ears warmed.  He convinced himself, once, and then twice, that he wasn’t a teenager anymore.  In fact, if anything, it would save him a few pints to break the news to the good doctor.

Lestrade finally smirked.   He really could get used to this.

As Mycroft continued to lavish eager attention to his bare throat again, Lestrade unwrapped his arms from Mycroft’s back.  Placing one hand on his hip,the silver he snaked the other hand under the taller man’s shirt.  It burned when his fingers caressed across his skin.

Just as Lestrade felt his blood started to pool southward, Mycroft abruptly stepped back, taking away the blazing warmth and breaking their intimidate connection.

“I am sorry…”  Horrified that he had crossed a boundary, Lestrade looked to the man who was rapidly putting a distance between them.  “I am sorry,  Mycroft.. I..”

“No. It was not that.”  Mycroft whispered.

And the sound of  door thrown open caused the confused policeman to turn around.

A team of medics rushed in, Anthea and John stood just outside of the door.  The chopper was just too small to cramp in that many people.

“Oh…”  The confusion melted away as Lestrade allowed the two medical professionals to surround him.  A warm orange blanket covered him.  One emergency personnel slid his arm under him and pulled him up.

As Lestrade was half carried out of the chopper, he looked back and found that Mycroft, who was still in the chopper, was also surrounded by another team.   His face was turned away from him.  All Lestrade could see was his ginger hair peeking through the medic team. The sound of the metal handcuff cut was heard.

“You are a bloody crazy man.”

“John!”  Lestrade whipped around and grinned.   “I knew you could get us out of this mess.  Captain Watson.”  From a far, Lestrade could see a stretcher heading to his way.  Apparently, the medics decided that he couldn’t put any more pressure on the injured foot. 

John waved his hand.  “Anthea already retracted my title.  How did you get all those cuts?” 

“Never take your shoes off when you are fighting terrorist.  John.”   The medics moved him onto a stretcher.  Another medic started to clean his arm.   “Especially  very smart one.”

“I can’t believe you jump onto the helicopter  with your feet looking like this.”  John moved to his side, inspecting his wounds.

“Well, that bloody Mycroft leave me no choice.”  Lestrade looked up to his good friend with curiosity.    The doctor averted uncomfortably to the right briefly before he refocused back at him.   Lestrade could sense there was something he wanted to say. 

“So.. you and Mycroft…”

_Ah.. the kiss._

“Yeah…  And I thought you were crazy.  Guess I am the crazier one, falling or not just a genius, but the British Government himself.”  Lestrade laughed and then quickly winced as the medic spreaded cool mist onto his injured foot.   Lestrade watched the mist flaking off from his skin and dissipating into the evening cool air with a mild interest before he relaxed back into the pillow.  Lestrade looked to the side, seeing Mycroft was also out of chopper, covering in an orange blanket.   

And Lestrade’s heart sank a bit.  He could tell that, even from a distance, the impassive mask was up again.  The older Holmes was now striding through the crowds toward a private jet.  His PA, Anthea was again a constant presence at his side, seemingly to update him with news.  He never once looked back at him, as he talked into the phone and then disappeared into the jet.

“Though..  I am not sure if it were just his adrenaline taking over…”  Lestrade muttered before he could catch himself.

John squeezed his good hand. 

“DI Lestrade, we are going to start to move you now.  How are you feeling?”

The words from the medic shook Lestrade out of brief moment of self pity.  “Ah, yeah.  I am good.”

“You want me to ride with you?”  John had let go of his hand, moving slightly to the side so the emergency personnel could have better access to the stretcher.

“Yeah.  Nice to have a friendly face on the way to the hospital.” 

“Actually, Dr. Watson, the hospital just contacted and said that Agent James was out of the surgery.   We could have the second ambulance take you over to see him before we put you on the flight.”

“Am I not going to the same hospital?   John could just ride with me right?”

“DI Lestrade, Mr. Holmes requested that you be onboard with him on his private jet.”  Lestrade saw him pointing to the same aircraft that Mycroft had boarded.

“I know when I am not needed.”  John said good-naturedly, if not on the teasing side.  “Please do take me to Agent James.”  John turned to the medic.  “I want to thank him for saving my life.”

Lestrade suddenly felt his face was almost too warm.  “John… wait, I have to thank..”

John hushed him, a twinkling yet mischievous smile slipping through his boyish face.  “Greg.  Get going now.  I don’t think Mycroft is ever a very patient man.”

 If Lestrade could hide under the blanket, he bloody would.  The medics wheeled him over to the jet as John directed them to do so.

“Inspector Lestrade.” 

“Anthea.”  Lestrade greeted Anthea who stood at the back entrance of the private jet.  The back door slide open.  Lestrade looked at it warily.  This was getting ridiculous.   “Actually, I can probably walk down.  You don’t have to lift the stretcher into the jet.”

“No sir.”  Anthea smiled, all teeth.  Lestrade almost felt light headed, as if he had dropped into a fairy tale land.   He didn’t think he had seen the woman smiled this much before.  “Mr. Holmes instructed that you should stay put on a stretcher.   Your feet had sustained enough damages.”

The medics slided him and the stretcher, head first, easily into the back entrance.  Anthea nodded to the emergency personnel, dismissing them.

“This is a little over kill here.. Anthea…”  Lestrade tried to sit up on the stretcher but stopped as he watched Anthea starting to close the door, from the outside.

“Aren’t you boarding?”

“Oh no.” Anthea smiled, all teeth again, in an oddly disturbing way.  It suddenly reminded Lestrade of the wolf in the Red Little Riding Hood story that he had told a group of kids at a charity function.   “You are on your own, Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Have a safe flight home.”  She stretched the last word as she closed the door fully.

Lestrade felt his heart quickened even as the silence suddenly filled the surrounding.  He struggled to finally get himself up into a proper sitting position, but before he could turn his head around to look for Mycroft, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

It was with a familiar gait.

“Gregory.”  The whispered word was spoken in a familiar voice as the footstep stopped.

Lestrade shivered, feeling warm air blown across his neck from behind. 

His heart could not beat any faster.

A familiar hand with elegant fingers snaked around his torso, pulling him close to a warm body.  Another hand started to guide his face around gently.

“Oh.. you bastard…”

Guess it wasn’t just adrenaline after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Oh my goodness. I actually finished! I tore up and rewrote so many times and this was what remained... At one point, the section was getting so long that I felt like I was loosing control to the story and I had to resisted the urge to scrap the full chapter! The final chapter was the hardest one to write... I had to somehow tie up as many loose ends without seemingly rushed... And have Mycroft and Lestrade went at each other without loosing grip of their characters.. too much. 
> 
> Anyhow.. hope you like the ending.. and I thank you for sticking to the end to read this. None of these were beta'ed.. I apologize. Perhaps I could fix things, now that I am done with this story. *exhale* it was relief. finally getting this story off my chest. *Grin*
> 
> BTW, I had tried to keep this Teen and above in the last section.. if I overstep my boundary, please let me know and I will change the rating.. 
> 
> Thank you THANK YOU for leaving kudos and bookmarks. And especially those who leave comments. Your encouragement help me write as fast as I did. It was a fun journey. I would love to hear from you what you think. It will help me with my next one.. :) 
> 
> Cheers.


	13. Epilogue (Prologue to Die Hard, Sherlock Style)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actually, this will be more like a prologue to Die Hard Sherlock Style...

Epilogue (Prologue to Die Hard, Sherlock Style)

Embarrassingly, it took 8 seconds for Sherlock Holmes to make the connection.   

“Sherlock?” 

But no one was there to know, was there?   “Mrs. Hudson.”  Sherlock gave his landlord a patently disinterested stare before he crossed the living room in 4 long strides and picked up his phone from the writing desk.    “The conclusion of soil bacteria simply cannot wait.  I am already behind in updating my blog.”   His fingers flew on the smartphone.   But instead of logging into his blog, he typed in a few key words in the search engine.

Terrorists.

L.A.

Bombs.

“Sherlock. “ His name was spoken with absolute frigidness.  “Don’t bother updating the blog.  No one is reading it.”

With his face remained neutral, the detective scanned at the words popping out of the search engine.

Nakatomi.  Hostages.  Hans Gruber. 

_43 years old.  German Mercenary._   His mind recalled.

 “John just went through that whole ordeal with that terrible business with the terrorist in L.A.  If it were not for Greg to call in, we don’t even know where John is!”  Shaking her head, Mrs. Hudson carried off his tea set with unnecessary force.   “It is a miracle that they all made out alright.  Poor Greg and that brother of yours though… they had to stop by a hospital in New York for a quick check up.    Your brother somehow tore his stitches on his way back on the plane.   Heaven knows what he was doing…   but they should be in much later this evening.   And why didn’t they take John with them on his private plane?  I just don’t understand.”

An image of a crumpled building surrounded by severely damaged police car popped up on his phone.  It had looked like a war zone.

  “Sherlock.  Are you listening to me?”

A blurry image of a short man with terrible jumper standing by a stretcher.    The terrible jumper bore the same hideous shade of purple and blue as John had wore the day Sherlock last saw him.  But what was different was that there were now splashes of crimson red on the jumper.

 “You will pick John up at the airport.  Otherwise, you get no more tea and biscuit from me!”   Sensing no reply, Mrs. Hudson admonished one final time before she closed the door behind her with force.

Heavy silence filled the room. 

With Mrs. Hudson out of sight, the detective pressed his lips into a thin line.   His knuckle turned white from gripping on his phone too hard.

* * *

“Isn’t technology wonderful?  It used to be those fat expensive air phones that you can hardly hear anything!”

John Watson looked up from his smartphone and smiled amicably to the old lady sitting next to him on the airplane.  “It is… until my flat mate abuses it.”   The former captain of Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers shook his head.  “Getting 107 messages about my bloody tea set not being ceramic was a form of torture.”

The nosy old lady shifted into his space.  “That’s quite a lot of messages from your famous flat mate.”  Her eyes seemed to sparkle with her knowing smile.

Ah.  He should have realized people would recognize him.   Sherlock Holmes has always stood out but lately, people started to recognize him as well.

“Well, what do you have there?”  John slipped the phone back into his pocket and shifted smoothly to a different topic as he eyed at a black thing on her tray table.

“This?”  The old lady picked up her Taser stun gun from her tray table.  She skillfully replaced the battery before clipping the cover back in place.  “Oh, my daughter gave me this right before I come on to this trip.  You know after that terrible news on the Nakatomi building, she told me to zap any bastards who want to screw with me.”   She winked and John could do nothing but smiled politely.  “And don’t tell anyone this, but I tried it on that yappy dog next door. “  She came closer and whispered like it was a conspiracy.  “The poor thing, I am not sure if it is ever going to walk again…”

John widened his eyes.   Perhaps Sherlock was not the only one with curiosity that could kill….

* * *

In a dimly lit motel room, the news channel shuffled through images from the aftermath of the attack on Nakatomi Building.  But the occupant of the room paid no attention to the horrendous images.   Instead, the man with hard but scarred body moved fluidly with Karate exercises.   The muscle on his arm shifted under the tight skin as he executed each move with control and precision.

A phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

The man resolved his last move of his Karate exercise.

Before the phone rang the third time, smoothly, the man reached over the side table and picked up his secured cell phone.  “Stuart.”  He spoke evenly.

“Hans Gruber failed.”  The deep voice came through coldly with no trace of emotion.

The man did not comment.  He knew better to just listen for further instruction.

“Package is en route to you as expected.  Activate your team and intercept.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.  He would earn his keep.   “Yes Sir.” 

The phone went dead.

* * *

Continue on to next series:  "Die Hard, Sherlock Style"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Series 4 is coming soon! Oh boy... this gives m motivation to continue to my second part of Die Hard series. This time with focus on Sherlock and John....

**Author's Note:**

> First try at the Sherlock Fandom. Let's see how this goes...


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